


Complications

by starrdust411



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mpreg, Prompt Fic, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2787089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrdust411/pseuds/starrdust411
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England's relationship with France takes a major shift after the events of one long summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

England found that this New World wasn't very different from the old one that he had left behind and that thought was both a source of comfort and aggravation. For one thing, despite the fact that he had crossed a vast ocean just to reach this new continent, he still found himself faced with an all too familiar problem: France. He had been aware of France's settlements on this land well before his ships had set sail, but the other nation's presence and the endless fights that it resulted in were still an annoyance that he could do without.

Still England was determined not to let France's existence get in his way. When he looked out on this vast new land and its wealth of resources, he saw the boundless potential it held within its fertile soils and he was resolute in his desires to hang on to it at all costs. Yet if France excelled in one area then it was at disrupting England's plans.

England soon found his musings interrupted when one of his men approached him, trailed by a too familiar white bird.

"Sir?" The young man began, handing England a neatly folded slip of paper. "Message for you."

England groaned, glaring up at the chirping little bird fluttering above them before accepting the paper with grumbled thanks. The message was simple and to the point, directing him to follow Pierre in order to meet with France himself, and England could not guess what the reason behind all this was.

"Right then. I'll be off for a bit," he announced, carefully folding the paper back up and tucking it into his coat pocket.

"Will you be in need of any assistance, sir?" the man asked and England instantly shook his head. Loathe as he was to admit it, he knew France very well by now and he had always been able to tell when he was up to something and this situation seemed perfectly safe.

"No, I'll be fine," he assured, taking one last look at the group of men hard at work building houses and plowing fields. "Look after things here and keep the men moving."

The young man gave him a quick nod and England went on his way, following Pierre who proceeded to take off at a casual pace towards the north. 

The site where France chose to meet him was a lake side clearing between the borders of their respective territories. He found France standing underneath a tree, staring out at the pristine waters in front of him with his arms wrapped loosely around his middle. He had his back towards him, but already England could feel that there was something off about his appearance, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

France noticed Pierre first as the bird twittered to announce their approach before going to land in a low branch above him. France looked up at the bird, smiled, and then turned his gaze towards England. "You came quickly," he noted teasingly. "Eager to see me?"

England frowned bitterly at the smug grin and his mocking eyes. "Oh come off it," he huffed. "You're the one who sent for me. I just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible."

France's smile widened as he turned his gaze away from England. It was then that he saw exactly what it was about France that had struck him as odd. Despite the smirk on his face and the playful tone to his voice, England was able to see that the usual confident air that France exuded was missing. He seemed uncertain, almost guarded and England couldn't recall a time in their history when France hadn't seemed to radiate self-assurance. Suddenly, he was very interested in whatever it was that France had to say. Not that he would ever let it show.

"Alright, France, out with it," England said, marching a few steps closer to France. He could now see the bags set under his eyes and the lines drawn over his usually smooth face. Something was troubling him and had likely resulted in the man losing quite a bit of sleep fretting over it. "What was it that you felt was important enough to drag me all the way out here for?"

France shifted again, adjusting himself so that his hips were now resting against the trunk of the tree and the shadows provided by the branches obscured his features. He had no doubt felt England's gaze studying his face and was doing his best to use the shade to help mask his flawed appearance. At least that seemed more like him.

"I wanted to tell you something," he began slowly. "Something… I found out not long ago."

"What is it frog? Have you run out of money and are planning to head back home?"

He watched as France's grip tightened around his waist, but he seemed to make a conscious effort to loosen his fingers and return them to hanging limply at his side. "I wish it were that simple," France muttered bitterly to himself. He then took a long, slow breath, considered his words and said "I… I am having a baby."

England didn't know why, but for just a moment he felt his heart clench and then sink in his chest at those words. He told himself that shock had caused it and that was also the reason why his face was burning and his hands were balling into fists.

"Well congratulations," he said tersely. "Where's the lucky girl? No doubt off crying her poor eyes out as we speak."

France's face fell and his eyes seemed to sink towards the ground. It wasn't the reaction England had been expecting. "England," he began again, speaking deliberate and carefully. " _I_ am having a baby."

England felt his mouth open and then quickly slip shut as the true meaning of the words began to sink in. "Oh."

"I… I wanted to tell you…" France began, but England was quick to interrupt him.

"You must really think I'm stupid."

France looked up at him then and the confusion shining in his blue eyes clear even from his place in the shade. "Quoi?"

"Honestly, old man, did I really beat you so badly last time that you'd come up with such a pathetic story just to get me to go easy on you?" England scoffed, shaking his head at the very idea. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to do better than that."

"You think that I am making this up?" France asked and to his credit he sounded genuinely affronted. 

"Of course you are!" England huffed. "Who would believe something so ridiculous? I'm not a bloody child France."

"I am not lying, England," France snapped, stepping out from underneath the tree and if England were honest with himself, he would say that he was able to spot the slight swell of France's stomach when he moved his arms from their place covering his abdomen. "I would never lie about something like this."

England turned away from him, because it was the only way for him to tear his gaze away from France's stomach. "Well, let's say that I did believe you," he began, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes of erasing the image from his mind. "Why the devil are you telling _me_ this?"

"You are stupider than you think I think you are," France sighed wearily. "It is your baby, imbecile!"

"You… you…!" England began, stuttering uselessly to get the words out, but they were caught in his throat. His head felt light and he didn't know if it was because of the way his heart was beating frantically in his chest or the way the world was currently twisting and turning beneath his feet. "You can't expect me to believe that!" he spat at last. "You of all people! The number of men you've been with alone-"

"I do not care if you believe me or not," France cut it, "but it is yours. I am certain."

"You're a liar and even if it was true then… Well I _still_ wouldn't care, because I wouldn't want to raise as much as a _barn_ with you let alone a baby!"

"I am glad to hear it," France huffed as he smoothed out the front of his shirt before adjusting the cuffs of his sleeve. "Because I did exactly what I wanted to do: I told you. Now you will never have to hear about it ever again."

France made to storm off, Pierre fluttering down from his perch to fly after him, but England was determined to get the last word in. "Fine. Good luck raising your imaginary bastard child you delusional twit!" he hollered. "And don't come bothering me with your ridiculous stories ever again!"

England stood back and watched after France's retreating form, staring after him until the other nation disappeared over the horizon. He silently assured himself that this would be the last time he gave any thought to the matter even as the still lingering image of France's swollen stomach shifted through his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

England tried his best to stick to his word and avoid all thoughts of France and to his credit he had been fairly successful for a while. Whenever a stray thought of his lead to his mind drifting towards images of France and their prior conversation, England was sure to put a quick end to the train of thought and shove it into the back of his mind where it belonged. Yet as time crawled on those stray thoughts came more often and the act of repressing them became more taxing. 

As the days grew longer and warmer, England found himself growing more withdrawn and miserable and at long last all those repressed thoughts had clawed their way to the front of his mind. His nights were sleepless as he spent hours tossing and turning and trying his hardest not to think of France and the child (potentially) growing inside of him. His child. Or not his child. It was so hard to decide which thought was more likely anymore. He only knew that guilt was eating away at him and he would never feel any better if he didn't go to check on France and see for certain whether or not he had been telling the truth.

He left the settlement early one morning and headed north towards the French territory New France (such a ridiculous name) in hopes of finding France. England told himself that he was only going to confirm that France was a liar and that once he felt assured in that fact he would return to his own territory.

Locating France proved to be more difficult of a task than he had originally imagined as the man seemed to have relocated since their last encounter. England soon found his brief, one day hike turning into a journey through the northern regions of the land in search of his elusive enemy. When he did finally happen upon France, he hardly recognized him.

He found France sitting by the bank of a river, a small stack of branches piled up beside him, as he soaked his feet in the shallow waters rushing downstream. Everything about France had changed since the last time England had seen him. His hair had grown a bit longer and didn't look nearly as silky and well groomed as usual. The thick bags under his eyes had disappeared, yet if at all possible he managed to look even more exhausted thanks to his red rimmed eyes and distinct lack of color in his cheeks. Most alarming of all, however, was his stomach. England may have been standing a good distance away from France, but even from where he stood he could see that France's stomach had expanded to nearly triple its previous size. 

_Dear God. He really is..._ He didn't allow the thought to continue, choosing instead to push down the word that longed to bubble to the surface of his mind. 

He should leave, he told himself, because he had seen exactly what he had set out to discover. Yet something kept him rooted to the spot and England had a hunch that it had everything to do with the way France was currently rubbing slow, gentle circles into his massive stomach. 

England sighed, fighting against the stubborn pride that would have him turn and run as far away from here as possible and deciding instead to move forward towards France.

"Well, what a surprise seeing you here," he began, trying desperate to keep his tone calm and casual. 

France turned towards him then, squinting in his direction as he shielded his blue eyes from the sun's bright rays. "England?" he asked, looking the man up and down and no doubt noting the tattered, worn clothes that England had been wearing for far too many days on end. (He hadn't exactly expected to go wandering around the wilderness searching for France and had neglected to pack anything else to change into.) "What are you doing here?"

He gave an awkward chuckle that sounded forced even to his ears. "Well, I just went out for a stroll and…" The words died out on his tongue as his eyes once again drifted downward towards France's stomach and the child clearly growing within. "How have you been managing? (Not that I care, that is.)"

"Oh I am doing quite well actually," France beamed as he pointedly turned his gaze back towards the water and away from England. England watched as France gave the still waters a casual kick, causing ripples to explode across the surface. "My fur trappers have been capturing a good deal of animals and my territory is expanding nicely."

"France," he began, but was quickly cut off.

"Oh, you were not asking about that were you?" France asked casually, his gaze still turned away from him. "You must be wondering about my little delusion. Well, as you can see I have been eating a lot." He gave the top of his stomach a quick pat to emphasize his point. "It takes a good deal of food to keep up such a ridiculous story, you see." France grimaced momentarily, but England could see that it was out of discomfort and not pain. "Excuse me, my delusion is kicking me. There there mon petite," he soothed, caressing his own stomach sarcastically. "Do not trouble yourself with the awful man over there. He is nothing to you."

England scowled bitterly both at the gesture and his words. A part of him knew that he had deserved that, but the part of him that hated France didn't care. "Alright fine," he huffed, marching a few steps closer to his side. "Maybe I've decided that I believe you after all… Is there anything that I can do?"

"You can go away," France told him. "The child and I are in the middle of a marvelous afternoon and you are spoiling our fun."

"Very funny," he grumbled. "But I'm being serious."

"As am I," he said. France shifted, jerking slightly in what seemed like an attempt to stand, but he quickly halted the effort in favor of running a hand through his windswept hair. "I already told you that you would not have to trouble yourself with this matter anymore and as you can see the baby and I have been doing quite well for ourselves these past three months."

Three months? Had it really been only three months since he had last seen France? The lack of sleep and persistent guilt gnawing away at his belly had made the time seem much longer. He briefly wondered if France felt the same way, before quickly deciding that he didn't care.

"Fine. If you want to be a stubborn arse about it, then that's just fine. I only wanted to see if you needed my help in anyway, seeing how you're quite useless on your own, but since you refuse to accept my offer, I'll just be on my way then."

To his dismay, France remained silent, choosing instead to focus his attention on the task of drying off his bare feet on the warm grass instead of England's indignant speech. England huffed in frustration before turning to storm off. He told himself that he had done all that he could and that France clearly didn't want or need his help, so there was no reason for him to ever think on this again. 

Yet every step he took in the opposite direction only made his stomach feel tight and his heart clench. By the time he found himself a good distance away from the stream, his legs felt heavy and his throat was painfully dry. England couldn't understand why he felt this way, but he knew the only cure for it was back by the lake.

With a frustrated groan, he marched back towards where he and France had been talking, telling himself he was only going back to make sure that France was already gone. He wasn't though. In fact, when he returned England saw that France had barely budge from his patch of grass, despite his best efforts. He watched from behind a thicket of trees as France groaned and squirmed on the grass, wobbling from side to side as he struggled to stand up. Apparently he hadn't yet grown accustom to the change in his body and was still having trouble moving.

The sight would have been comical if France didn't completely ruin the absurd display by crying. England was used to seeing France cry, because France was a cry baby and was not above using tears to get his way. Yet, as far as France knew, there was no one around for miles and thus such a display of "vulnerability" would be rendered useless without anyone to manipulate. Furthermore there was something different about France's sobs. It wasn't the typical over the top display of tears that England was so familiar with, but a quiet sniffling whimpe that caused his shoulders to shudder slightly and made the horrible feeling in the pit of England's stomach resurface.

"Oh, to hell with it," England grumbled as he once more pushed aside his own dignity in favor of France.

He didn't exactly sneak up behind the man as he made no effort in hiding his angry foot falls, but France had been so distracted by his own self pity that he actually jumped when England crouched down to slip his hands underneath France's arms. "E-England?" he stuttered, too startled to even bother to wipe off the line of tears decorating his cheeks.

"On the count of three," England muttered, wanting only to get this task over with as quickly as possible. "One... two..."

"Wait a minute! Be gentle with me," France ordered as he squirmed in England's grasp. "I am in a delicate condition, remember?"

England huffed, rolling his eyes at the comment as he adjusted his grip. "There. Better?"

"Oui, just remember to lift with your chicken legs and not your frail back."

"Bloody hell France! Do you want me to just leave you here for the birds to feast on?" To his delight France stayed silent and allowed England to finally hoist him off of the ground -- a task that he accomplished with a good deal of effort and a few pathetic huffs. As soon as France was standing erect once more -- which he did after quite a bit of wobbling -- his hands instantly flew to his back, grasping at his sides and rubbing out the lingering discomfort. The gesture only caused his already massive stomach to protrude even further, highlighting its girth. England tore his eyes away from the sight, busying himself by gathering the stack of wood that had been at France's side. "Here's your... dammit France!"

France, who had been casually walking away, came to a halt at the sound of England's offended cries. "You are not going to make me carry that are you?" he asked innocently. "You said you wanted to help and carrying a few sticks for me is the least you could do."

England was tempted to remind him that he had just assisted in lifting France off of the ground when he could have very easily just walked away and left him to his pathetic struggles, but chose instead to grumble lowly to himself as he followed close behind France. "Where are we headed?" England asked, hoping that wherever France was staying wasn't too far away.

"Do not worry, mon cher, I will not keep you too long," France assured as he lead England away from what seemed like a beaten path and towards a thicket of trees. He watched as the other man surveyed the ground as he walked on carefully, seeming to search out for something beneath their feet. After a few paces he stopped, eyes pinned towards what looked like a fallen branch. "Pick that up for me."

"What?" England frowned, looking between the bundle of wood in his arms and the large stick that France was currently pointing towards. "Why?"

"Because I need firewood and I think that would make good kindling," France informed him dully. "Now pick it up."

"I'm not your bloody work horse," he snapped. "And you've got two perfectly good arms you can use."

"Ah, even when you are being helpful you are useless," France sighed dramatically. He seemed to wait a moment or two, likely hoping that his goading would have an effect on England, but when he didn't so much as bat an eye France gave out an indignant huff and scowled at him. "Fine, I will do it myself."

What proceeded was a display even more pathetic than France's attempts to lift himself from the ground had been. England stood back watched as France carefully bent forward to pick up the fallen branch, only to wobble and tip forward. France managed to straighten himself before he could fall face first into the dirt and decided to shift tactics by crouching down slowly. He seemed incapable of lowering himself to ground level and instead tried to stretch out his arms around his massive middle towards the stick only to find that they would not reach. Once again England found himself in a situation where it would have been easy to laugh at France's misfortune, but the way his cheeks began to slowly turn green from the effort ruined the effect once more.

"Oh, don't strain yourself," England huffed as he quickly stepped in front of France and grabbed the branch for him, adding it to the wood held tightly in his arm. He had expected to see France smile triumphantly up at him, but instead found himself being pinned with a bitter frown as the other man carefully straightened himself and once again headed to the east.

They continued on in an uncomfortable silence which was occasionally broken by France periodically pointing towards things for England to pick up. When England began to feel certain that France was merely leading him around in circles, he spotted a small settlement just over the horizon.

"Alright, you may hand me my firewood and be on your way," France told him, holding his arms out towards England expectantly.

The idea of abandoning France was tempting, but it would feel like just that: abandoning him. For some unknown reason the idea of leaving France alone made his stomach twist and turn cold, because if France could barely lift himself and if France had trouble bending...

"No," he said finally, hugging the bundle of wood to his chest. "No I'll... I think I'll see you home."

"Please England, do not put me through the torment of enduring your company any longer," he snipped. "And do not pretend that you take any pleasure from mine. Now just give me my things and get out of my sight."

"How very like you to look a gift horse in the mouth," England snapped, although he knew that it wasn't like France at all. "Well I am sorry that you find my presence so bothersome, but you will just have to endure it for a bit more. Now show me to whatever mud hole you're currently squatting in."

France allowed himself a moment to pin England with a withering stare before doing as he was instructed and walking towards the town. The oddness of their path did not escape England's notice as he followed close behind France as the other man carefully took what seemed like a back path around the township instead of walking through it. He wasn't certain if this was to avoid being seen or to avoid being seen with _England_.

The cabin France led him to -- situated on the far end of the settlement -- was very simple and seemed to have been quickly constructed quite recently. It wasn't at all what he had been expecting, but he decided not to comment on it, choosing instead to deposit the bundle of wood on the front porch before following France inside. The interior of the cabin was small and bare and once again England chose not to say anything, feeling that it wasn't his place to do so.

"You probably want to spend the night," France guessed correctly as he nodded towards the sun that was slowly sinking in the sky. "Well that is fine, but I want you to get out of those clothes."

England rolled his eyes at the comment. He wasn't at all taken aback to hear such a suggestion, but he hadn't expected France to be so forward about it. "I would say that I'm surprised, but that would be a ridiculous lie," he scoffed. "It figures that you would have that on your mind even in these circumstances."

France did not look at all amused by England's comment. If anything, he seemed quite annoyed. "You smell," he said bluntly. "The stench from your clothes is making me sick. Go change."

"Oh," he said slowly. He allowed himself to feel embarrassed for just a moment before pushing the feeling aside. "And just what do you propose I change into? I don't exactly have a spare set of britches with me?"

"I will give you something to wear."

"Your clothes? Are you sure they'll...?" he stopped himself mid sentence, but it was already too late.

The expression on France's face quickly shifted from annoyed to something a bit harder to place as he wandered towards the back of the cabin and into a separate room tucked into the eastern corner. "These are from before," France told him when he returned to the main room. "They should fit."

England nodded as he accepted the clothes. He grabbed a small pitcher of water and headed towards the back of the cabin. Outside, the air was already beginning to grow cooler as the sky shifted into a bright orange hue. There was no one around, but that didn't stop England from quickly stripping down to his knickers and proceeding to hurriedly splash water against his bare skin. He ignored the urge to shudder at the sting of cold water against unsuspecting flesh as he quickly redressed himself. The clothes France gave him were incredibly simple -- a white blouse and brown britches -- and England couldn't help to think he had done so intentionally. The shirt and trousers fit perfectly, but that was really no surprise since he and France were about the same size. 

_Well... we used to be._

England sighed, allowing his mind to wander for the first time as he gazed out at the sun sinking in behind the tree tops. He felt torn over what to do with himself. He didn't really want to stay, because even now he couldn't bring himself to like France. What's more, France seemed to have gotten even more irritable over the last few months and the two of them sharing a small cabin would be like a powder keg ready to go off at any moment. At the same time, England knew that he couldn't just walk away from all this, because there was still a good chance that that was his baby France was carrying. What sort of man would he be to abandon his child before it was even born?

He turned his head towards the township where he still heard voices calling towards one another and smelled fresh wood burning in the fire. He envied those Frenchies. They didn't realize just how simple their lives were compared to his.

_I'll give it one day,_ he decided. _Just one day and we'll see how things turn out from there._

He took in a slow deep breath, straightening out the clothes that were still clinging to his slightly damp body. As he prepared himself to step back inside, England made a silent promise to himself to be civil. He wouldn't raise his voice or talk back to France unless he was provoked... maybe not even then. They had to try to get along. Just this once.

When he stepped back inside of the cabin he saw that France had already lit a few candles and was busying himself starting a fire in the heath. He couldn't tell if it was discomfort or weariness that was causing the deep frown spread across France's face, but he had a feeling that his current task was partly the cause.

"Let me do that," he offered, mindful to use his gentlest tone, as he pried the wood from France's hands.

France didn't protest. He merely gave a quiet sigh before walking over towards a chair near the fireplace and gently sitting down. England watched as France's whole body seemed to go limp as he relaxed against the arms of the wooden chair. France looked positively worn and England had to wonder just how much effort he had to put into the simplest task in his current condition.

"Um, France," he began awkwardly, using one of the pokers to coax the fire to life. "I just wanted to say... Well, I'm sorry. About the other day... and today, I suppose. I... I could have been nicer."

England held his breath, waiting for a snide remark or a teasing comment, but was instead greeted by the same soft sobs he had heard down by the river. Tearing his eyes away from the fireplace, England was more than a bit confused to find France openly sobbing, face buried in the palms of his hands as his whole body trembled and shook.

"Oh for the love of...! I apologize to you and _this_ is how you react?" England knew that he shouldn't have raised his voice, but it was all he could think to do in that moment, because clearly the frog had lost his mind. "What the devil is wrong with you?"

"It's you! _You_!" France cried out from between sobs. "I hate you. I wish you were dead!"

England blinked, taken aback by the unexpected, yet venomous, response. "What did I do?"

"Everything!" France practically screamed the word as he lifted his face from his hands in order to glare up at him. The impact of his stare was lessened significantly by the tears streaking down his cheeks and England found himself feeling more sympathetic than angry. "It is your fault that I am like this." He took a moment to gesture towards his massive middle before standing -- quickly and carefully -- to give England the full force of his glower. "I used to be beautiful and strong, but look at me now! You turned me into an ugly, fat, pathetic _thing_!" The anger that had been burning so brightly inside of him seemed to die out in that moment as remorse quickly set in and caused France to dissolve into a fit of tears once more. "I hate being this way! I cannot sleep because the baby keeps kicking me. I cannot eat because everything makes me ill. I can barely walk and went I stand for too long my back hurts terribly. And _no one_ wants to be near me! No one. No one."

Guilt twisted his stomach and made his throat go horribly dry and before England even knew what he was doing he actually found himself hugging France. France squirmed against the embrace, fighting and fidgeting for a while before finally giving in and allowing himself to be held. "Mon Dieu, how low have I sunk to be pitied by _you_?" France sniffed, burying his face in England's shoulder. "Oh how I hate you. I wish this had happened to you instead."

England felt his skin go positively ashen at the thought. It could have been him, very easily, and somehow he felt certain that France would have been so much better to him if their situations were reversed. "I know you don't want to hear this," he began softly, cringing slightly at the moisture spreading through his shirt thanks to France, "but I am... sorry. And well, to be fair, you were never all that strong to begin with."

In spite of everything the joke earned a soft chuckle from France who still stood limply in England's arms. He sighed, running his hand up and down France's back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. "And... I do think you still look... pretty."

"Really?" France asked, his voice soft and hopeful as he lifted his head in order to study England's face.

"Yes, very pretty," he assured him, offering the man's shoulder a quick squeeze. "Why, if I didn't know any better I'd say you were a young lass in a family way."

France sniffed, a small smile creeping across his lips. "I suppose that is the best I can hope for." He fell silent then as he reluctantly moved back towards the chair he had been occupying and sat down heavily.

England crouched down beside him, because there was nowhere else to sit, and allowed himself to stare openly at France's stomach. "Is it really so terrible?" he asked.

"Sometimes," he admitted, placing a sad hand on top of his belly, "but I do not hate it... The baby that is. I love her. Or him. Whatever it is, I love it. I just..."

"Wish you weren't pregnant," England finished. 

France nodded.

An awkward silence settled upon them as England suddenly found himself at a loss for words. He couldn't exactly chastise France for the statement, considering his circumstances, and the effort to fight against the guilt spilling into his stomach was exhausting. England shook the thought out of his head as he slowly made to stand.

"You look cold," he said awkwardly. "I'll go fetch you a blanket." He went into the back room in hopes of finding something to wrap France in, only to stumble upon Pierre, sleeping soundly in a cage by the window. England scowled at the sight. "Damn bird," he muttered to himself. "It seems I just can't be rid of you."

Pierre fluttered his soft white wings in response, but soon settled back down and continued sleeping.

England rolled his eyes at the sight, before moving on to retrieve the blanket draped over the small bed on the other side of the room. He returned to the other room only to discover that France was already fast asleep. He frowned, moving closer to the other man's side and draping the blanket around his sleeping form. "Silly twit," England chided as he carefully smoothed out the fabric and wrapped it around France. "I'm not carrying you to bed, so you'll just have to deal with the cramps you'll get the morning."

He sighed as he considered what to do next. The sun had already fully set and with France already sound asleep here it meant that the bed was free for him, but he couldn't quite bring himself to go to sleep just yet. Instead he stood there, watching France take deep, even breaths and studied the way the glow from the fire settled softly against his face. England had to admit that in that moment France did look quite pretty and that thought was enough to make him shudder just a bit.

"I should get some rest," he grumbled, rubbing at his eyes wearily. "Clearly I'm not thinking straight."

Despite that thought, he found himself unable to move. He crouched down beside France and gently slipped his hand underneath the folds of the blanket and pressed it, carefully, onto his stomach. The round bulge was smooth and surprisingly hard as not a single bit of flab greeted his questing palm. England wondered how much France weighed now and just how it would feel to walk around with this sort of burden resting just beneath your skin. He hadn't realized that his hand had been lingering on France's body for so long until he felt a strange sort of pressure rise up to meet his palm. It didn't take him long to realize that the baby had just given him a quick kick, but the strength of the move was more than a bit startling.

"You're a feisty lad, aren't you?" he whispered softly. Just as he started to consider how absurd it was for him to be speaking to a stomach (and France's at that) the babe seemed to reply to his words by giving his palm a few more good kicks. He smiled at the gesture, but it promptly faded when he heard France groan softly in response, shifting and rubbing his belly in discomfort. England had to move his hand quickly to avoid having their fingers touch, but France soon settled back down and drifted off once more.

"Alright lad, that's enough for one night," he whispered chidingly to the stomach. "You both need your rest."


	3. Chapter 3

When England woke up the next morning he wasn't terribly surprised to find France in the bed beside him. The man must have woken up in the middle of the night and decided to relocate himself into his bed despite the fact that it was quite clearly occupied. Not that England could complain. He was a guest in France's cabin and in his current condition France needed to use the mattress more than he did. 

He flipped onto his side and was instantly greeted by the sight of blond hair spilling out across the shared pillow. Even though France had his back turned towards him England could still tell that he was sound asleep from the steady puffs of breath that escaped his lips. The sun had already risen, its golden rays peaking into the small cabin, and England felt his stomach give a soft rumble as he recalled that he hadn't eaten anything in a while.

_If I'm hungry, then France must be starving,_ he reasoned.

Gently, he slipped off of the straw mattress, mindful not to wake the other occupant. Yet despite his best efforts he was soon greeted by the sound of France sighing softly before stirring at his side.

"Mm, is it morning?" France half asked, half yawned as he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. 

"Yes, but you stay here," England instructed. "I'll bring you something to eat."

"You will not find much," France mumbled, before settling back into the bed.

England went to the front of the cabin and wasn't surprised to find that France had been right as there was only a loaf of bread and a bit of cheese for them to eat. He shrugged as he gathered the bit of food and brought it to the bedroom. It would have to do. When he returned France carefully straightened himself and rested his back against the headboard. England divided the bread and cheese between the two of them, mindful to give France the bigger portion, before settling down across from him on the mattress. The two of them ate their breakfast in an uncomfortable silence, but England felt that it was better than the openly hostile atmosphere that they had endured yesterday.

England split his bread in half and placed his wedge of cheese between it, but France merely nibbled at his cheese before moving on to pick off the crust of his bread before attacking the soft white insides. The scene was so painfully dull that England almost felt himself drifting back to sleep.

"Here," France said, breaking the silence when he offered the crumbs of bread to England. "Feed these to Pierre."

"Oh for the love of... How can you think of feeding that damn bird in a time like this?"

"Pierre is my friend, England cher. You would know about such things if you actually had any."

England grumbled quietly to himself as he accepted the bit of bread France offered him before getting up to deposit it unceremoniously into the bottom of Pierre's cage. Pierre fluttered and twittered sweetly at the sight of the food offered to him and England simply responded by sneering at the little creature.

"Do not mock Pierre," France chided and England had to wonder how he had managed to see England's sneer when his back was facing him.

"Right well, you don't seem to have much to eat, so I suppose I'll go and pick up a few things," England offered. He frowned at his words when he realized that he didn't have any money to spend. "Or perhaps I'll just catch us some fish."

"I will join you then," France ventured as he carefully maneuvered himself off of the bed.

"No, I..." he stammered, stopping himself when France pinned him with a challenging look. "You don't have to do that. I'll be fine on my own."

"I am sure, but I want to come anyway," he said firmly. "The baby likes being out in the sun."

"How can he tell? He's stuck in your stomach."

"Yes and it gets so nice and warm in there." France smiled as he rubbed the top of his belly. "She loves to be warm and toasty."

England frowned at that. This country could get so terribly warm during the summer and he did not envy France for having to be stuck carrying a baby in this heat. The last thing he wanted was to make him even more uncomfortable, but if France wanted to do something then there was no stopping him. "Fine then. We'll just be quick about it."

\---

England was happy to say that he had caught quite a few fish. He didn't have a proper line or bait so he was forced to wade into the water and catch fish with his bare hands in the same fashion as the natives who had taught it to him and his men. 

The thought of his men was a harsh reminder that he shouldn't be here. He was wasting his time playing in the water and dealing with a man who didn't really want him around. He should have been far away, tending to his colonies and helping with the settlement. England shook those thoughts out of his head. It didn't really matter what he should have been doing. It only mattered that he was here now and would simply have to make the best of this unfavorable situation.

He turned his attention towards France who had found a sunny patch of grass and had settled down to bask in the warmth of the early summer day. England frowned at the sight, wondering whether the other man had forgotten about his pathetic struggles just the other day or if he were expecting to have England help him get to his feet once again.

England soon found himself distracted from these thoughts as he watched France rub small circles into his stomach and whisper soothing words to it. Even after spending an entire day with him, it was still hard for England to see France this way: fat and awkward and at odds with himself. Half the time France looked absolutely miserable and the rest, the times when he focused his attention on the baby and not his own uncomfortable girth, he seemed rather content. 

"Does it hurt?" he asked sitting down on the grass beside France. "When he kicks that is," he explained when France only responded to his question with a confused stare. "Does it hurt?"

"It is more uncomfortable than painful," France told him. "She kicks the hardest when she is hungry. It is the worst when she kicks at me from two places at once."

"Two at once? Is that even possible?"

"I assure you, it is," he sighed. They fell silent then. A breeze drifted by and England tried his best to focus his attention on the rustling of the grass instead of the painful quiet. "She is kicking now," France noted. "Would you like to feel?"

"Of course not," he snapped. "Why would I want to touch you? I'll wait until after the lad is born." 

France shook his head and went back to pressing the palm of his hand here and there on his stomach. All the while England fought against the sudden urge to ask the question that he knew he shouldn't, but it would not stop gnawing at him no matter how much he tried to push it aside. "How far along are you?" he asked instead.

France thought for a moment before answering with "Seven months I think."

"Seven?" he repeated. "But you're so..." He stopped himself when embarrassment flashed behind France's blue eyes.

_Why is this so bloody awkward?_ England thought miserably. _We've spoken before haven't we? It was never this hard to just sit with each other. Well, it was always hard, but in a different way. I suppose it's because we both know what I want to ask. Maybe I should just do it now and get it over with._

"France," he began carefully, focusing his gaze on a single blade of grass instead of France's face. "I know I probably shouldn't ask this since you're still quite miffed at me, but, well, I just need to know you see? I suppose what I'm trying to say is-"

"How do I know it is your baby?" France finished for him, confirming England's prior suspicions. He didn't bother to give any sort of response, instead choosing to wait quietly for France to reply. "That is simple. I just know."

England tore his eyes away from the ground in order to pin France -- who was, much to his annoyance, wearing a pleasantly smug grin -- with the full force of his scowl. "What sort of answer is that?" he snapped. "Are you trying to tell me it was simply your woman's intuition?"

"Something like that," France told him flippantly. England waited for just a moment, allowing his glower to continue to burn into France's side, before the man finally turned serious. "Oh England, you truly have no faith in me. I am not the sort of man that you like to think I am."

"Meaning?"

France shook his head at the question, disappointment weighing him down and causing his shoulders to slump. "Meaning that seven months ago there had only been you."

"Oh," England said simply and once again he found himself feeling like an absolute heel. "Well... do you think you've had enough sun?"

"I think I am ready for some fish," France answered as he gave his stomach a weary pat. 

England tried not to smile.

\---

The walk back to the cabin was marked by a tense silence that England was starting to become all too familiar with. It had only been a little more than a day since they had entered into this awkward living situation and while they had made some progress it all just felt so painfully slow. He briefly wondered if things would be any better after the baby was born, but he quickly pushed that thought aside. He wasn't quite ready to contemplate that aspect of the future just yet.

When they reached the cabin England made sure to get straight to work at gutting and scaling the fish while France wandered inside, intent on doing as little as possible. Not that England was at all surprised by this. In fact, he tried his best not to think about it, choosing instead to focus his attention on the act of pulling out the fish's slimy innards before carefully running the blade of his knife against its skin. By the time he had finished and set about cleaning up his mess, France was already fast asleep. Once again England was not surprised, just incredibly annoyed. 

Remembering that France had briefly mentioned being hungry while they were sitting by the lake, England decided to prepare a simple lunch out of some of his fish. He sliced up one of them along with a few vegetables that he had found while rummaging through the cabin and made a quick soup before salting the rest of the fish and storing them for later. When the soup was finished he went into the back room to rouse France and then lead the sleepy man to the table at the front of the cabin. To his surprise (and secret delight) France didn't put up much of a fight about eating the meal he had prepared for him and went about consuming the broth with an indifferent air.

"Well, this is strange," he commented. "You're actually eating my cooking without objection. No snide comments for me, Frog? No critiques about how bland my broth turned out? No complaints about the vegetables being too hard to stomach?"

For a moment England was afraid he had broken whatever spell had been cast upon France's taste buds when the man turned to look up at him with confused blue eyes. Yet to his continued shock France only offered him a shrug before going back to ladling the soup into his mouth. "Well, it is not good," he muttered between mouthfuls of fish, "but it is not making me retch, so it is good enough."

England accepted the back handed comment, because it was nice to have someone to cook for, even if that someone was France. 

He had barely set down to eat his own lunch when France had finished off his own bowl. "Is there anymore?" he asked and England had to admit he hadn't been expecting the question.

"Um, well," he stammered. He had only prepared enough for two, so he simply filled France's bowl with half of his own share and made a mental note that he would have to cook in large quantities in the future.

France finished off the rest of his meal quickly and quietly, not bothering to offer England as much as a muttered thank you. "Well, I am going back to bed," he announced once his bowl was clean. 

"What? You only just woke up!" he pointed out.

"Yes, but you interrupted my nap and I intend to finish it," France explained as he pushed himself away from the table and began slowly heading back towards the back of the cabin.

"Come now, France. You can't just spend all day and all night sleeping. It can't be good for you."

France responded to his comment with a sarcastic chortle and England frowned at him in return. "Oh England, how simple you are. You know nothing about pregnancy."

His frown only deepened at that, because France probably knew just as little as he did and was only gaining an informal education in the matter by experiencing it firsthand. Still, it made him wonder just how much sleep one needed while carrying a child. Having another person inside must take a great deal of energy, he reasoned, and with France being a man and thus unfit for the process, it must have been more taxing than usual. Or perhaps France was fit for it. He had gotten pregnant after all, without any conscious effort or intervention from anyone else, so maybe all beings like them were meant to carry children. Or maybe France was just an unusual case and this condition was just a side effect of his amorous nature. Or perhaps France was under some sort of curse.

England shook his head and stopped that train of thought then and there. He didn't want to think about it, because this whole situation just made his head hurt.

He ate what little soup had been left for him and then went about cleaning the cabin, because it was in desperate need of it. France may like things neat and orderly, but he had always been rubbish at chores. The man constantly needed others to take care of him and unfortunately that role now fell on England's shoulders. However, the excitement from that little adventure only lasted him a few minutes, because the cabin was quite small and England soon found himself alone and bored. 

He didn't want to wake France, reasoning that the man needed his sleep (and really what would he gain from having him awake other than to have someone to share in the uncomfortable silence?). He paced about the cabin a few times before deciding that he would go into town and buy some food. 

England found a small purse full of coins near the bed and took them quietly so as not to wake France. He walked briskly towards the town, grimacing when the sound of voices chattering away in French greeted his ears. His own French was horrendous, but passable. He still remembered centuries ago sitting in a field with France as the other country tried to teach him his language. England had purposely butchered every vowel and syllable just to watch France's face twist in displeasure. They had only been children then and teasing France had been a much more enjoyable activity than being chased around by his brothers. Of course, when France turned the tables on him, things were not so enjoyable.

Now England wished he had tried a bit harder in his French lessons, because every time he opened his mouth to speak to one of the merchants in the settlement they gave him a disgusted scowl that spoke volumes of their desires to do him harm for his butchering of their language.

_I hope that baby comes soon,_ he thought to himself. _I don't know how much longer I can stand living among all these frogs._

By the time he decided to give up on bargaining for food, the sun was beginning to set. He returned to the cabin with a basket full of pathetic vegetables and poor strips of meat that likely wouldn't keep for very long. His mind was so busy swirling with thoughts of what to cook for dinner that he almost missed the frantic cries that came from within the small wooden home. England picked up his pace then, heading towards the cabin in a brisk sprint. He had just reached the wooden steps when the door swung open and France emerged, pale faced and frantic.

"England," France panted, breathing a bit too quickly for his liking. "England!" 

England stood stunned as France closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms about his shoulder, digging his fingers into England's flesh.

"France, what's wrong?" he asked as soon as he regained his senses. He pulled France away from him and held him at arm's length in order to get a good look at his body. Everything looked fine, but England didn't let his guard down. "What happened? Is it the baby?"

"You left," France gasped, his voice still quivering and tears brimming into his wide eyes. "You left us!"

"Wh-what?" he sputtered, shocked to say the least that his brief disappearance had caused France to come undone. He had always known France to be overly dramatic, but this was ridiculous. "I was gone for all of five minutes!"

"You left while I was sleeping," France went on, his voice pitifully low as tears began to streak down his cheeks. "I could not find you. I did not know where you were."

"I just went into town to get us some food. See?" He raised the basket in his hand to France's eye level, hoping that the gesture would be enough to relieve the tension building inside of France. To his dismay, the gesture seemed to set something off inside of France and he responded to the sight of the food by slapping the basket out of England's hands. "Damn it all, France. That was our dinner!" England chided as he watched his recently purchased goods tumble to the ground.

"I do not care about food!" France screamed. England watched as his face turned a frightening shade of red and his body began to shake. "You ran out on us," he went on, gesturing frantically towards his belly. "You are always so eager to leave us, so just leave!"

With that France stormed back inside, slamming the door behind him. England was left in the fading light of the sun, too stunned to even move as he desperately tried to process what had just happened. He couldn't begin to imagine what could have transpired in the brief time he had been away that would have caused this sort of reaction. England grumbled irritably to himself about nitwitted frogs as he went about salvaging his purchase before entering the cabin.

"See here France, you can't just react like that every time I leave!" he chided, but his indignation quickly faded away when he once again found France slumped over in his chair sobbing quietly to himself. In an instant he went from feeling certain that he was the put upon victim to seeing himself as nothing more than a shameless bully as he listened to the heartbreaking hiccups and whimpers that escaped France's trembling form. "France," he began again, making a conscious effort to soften his tone. "France I'm sorry. I just... well I don't know what I did wrong exactly."

"I had a dream," France whimpered weakly and the words almost sounded childish to his ears. Yet the way France sat there with his arms wrapped around his stomach without bothering to raise his eyes to meet England's gaze or even wipe at the trail of tears marring his cheeks made all thoughts of mockery evaporate inside of him. "It was so horrible. And when I woke up I could not find you. I was sure you had left for good." He watched as France squeezed his eyes shut tight against the thought, the gesture causing two more tears to fall from his lids and drip down his chin. "I do not want to be alone."

England sighed, placing his basket down on the wooden table before going to crouch down next to France. "I didn't leave though," he told him. "I came back. I won't leave you for good."

"How... how can I believe you?" France sobbed. "You hate me. You would not stay with me when I was normal, how can you want to stay near me when I am like this?"

"Well I," he began, but then found himself coming to a gradual halt. What was he supposed to say to comfort him? France was right, he did hate him and always would. Even as he stood there comforting his long time enemy England couldn't see himself feeling anything more than pity for the man, but that wasn't the right thing to say at a time like this. England frowned, fighting against the little voice in his head that told him not to, before he finally decided to put a comforting hand on France's knee. That wasn't so bad, was it? If he could stand to hug him, he could stand to pat his knee. "I'm not going to leave," he assured him. "I want to stay for the baby, because it's bigger than us and, well, I suppose I can put up with you for the sake of our child."

France gave a loud sniff as he sloppily wiped away the tear tracks on his face. He didn't look very happy, but at least he wasn't openly sobbing anymore. "Do you promise you will not try to leave us again?"

England scowled at this, feeling very much as if the man hadn't heard a single word he had just said, but he pushed that aside for now. "I promise," he said at last. "And I promise that I won't go anywhere while you're asleep again. I don't want a repeat of this."

France offered him a weak, very weak, smile and England hoped that it was a sign that they were on better terms now. 

"Right, well, I suppose I'll make us some supper," England offered, because the small lunch he had eaten had only left his stomach feeling teased. Yet he couldn't keep himself from frowning at the reminder of the food that had been ruined. "I'm afraid whatever I make might taste a bit worse than usual."

"That is alright," France assured him. "I think the baby has turned off my sense of taste anyway." He jumped a little bit then, before smiling and putting his hands on either side of his stomach. "She is kicking again. Would you like to feel?"

England frowned, shaking his head quickly. "Um, no thank you," he said as he stood up and made to prepare dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

That morning England had awoke to find that France had broken their unspoken sleeping agreement. There was only one small bed in the cabin and the two usually slept back to back, with England teetering precariously near the edge of the mattress in order to give France the space he would need to accommodate his massive stomach. However, England was able to tell from the even puffs of hot breath on his neck and the arm slung around his waist that France had either shifted in his sleep or had waited until England had dozed off to curl up behind him.

England did not like the position and it wasn't simply due to the fact that France's hands were now dangerously close to his vital regions or the fact that the other man's stomach was pressed uncomfortably against his back. It was because he feared that France was starting to get far too familiar with him.

It had been two weeks since he had invited himself to stay in France's cabin and in that time the two had fallen into a comfortable little routine. In the morning England would wake up and make France breakfast. France would then wake up, eat, walk around for a little while, and then take a nap. England would use the time to tend to a few things around the cabin before setting to work making them lunch. France would then wake up, eat, walk around a bit more, and then nap again. England would then occupy himself in some small way before finally getting to work on dinner. France would then wake up, eat, walk around for a little while, and then go to bed. It had become the norm for them: England would cook and clean and France would eat and sleep. Yet the moments that they spent awake together were filled with less awkward silences and England found himself both relieved and hesitant at this shift. He now often caught France smiling at him in a too warm manner when he thought England wasn't looking and had become more forceful in his offers to have England touch the baby. (He strongly suspected that it was not the baby that France wanted him to touch.)

His troubled thoughts were soon interrupted when France gave out a soft sigh and shifted against his back. He hummed, the sound sending pleasant vibrations to England's ear, before stretching out his arms and wrapping them around England's waist. "Good morning, Arthur," he purred, rubbing his smooth cheek against England's shoulder.

"Wh... France!" he sputtered. "Don't call me that."

"Oh, why not?" he pouted playfully. "Arthur is such a cute name."

England frowned at that, because he wasn't used to hearing his human name spoken in that manner. Only his brothers called him "Arthur" and they never used it as a term of endearment. "Well, I don't like it," he lied. "So please refrain from using it, _Francis_."

He had said the name with a sneer, but France warmed to it like a sunbathing cat on a warm patch of floor and England could practically feel the smile on his face. He realized then another reason he disliked France sleeping like this and it had everything to do with the warm feeling pooling into the pit of his stomach. 

Fortunately for England things didn't get a chance to proceed much further as they were soon interrupted by someone rapping briskly on the cabin door. Pierre tweeted vigorously at the sound, hopping up and down in his cage and fluttering his wings frantically to gain their attention. Relief washed over England as France gave out an annoyed groan.

"Merde," France muttered as he rolled onto his back and away from England. "Someone is ruining our beautiful morning. Arthur, mon cher, could you go see who it is?"

"It's your bloody house, France," England reminded him. "Get the door yourself."

"I cannot answer the door like this!" he lamented. England sat up and turned to glare over at France who began to fret over his sleep tussled hair and the rumpled night shirt that was clinging to his massive stomach in odd lumps. "Look at me! I look terrible! Please do not make me show my face looking this way."

England sighed, rolling his eyes at the other man's melodramatic complaints. "Fine," he huffed, pushing himself out of bed just as another knock greeted their ears. "Fine, fine, fine! I'll go get the door while you just sit back and pout."

He let out a series of irritated huffs and grumbles as he grabbed the dressing gown slung over the chest at the foot of their (he couldn't believe he was actually calling it "their") bed. It was France's dressing gown. Nearly everything he had been wearing for the pasted few weeks belonged to France back when he had been slim enough to fit in them and England didn't know how to feel about it. To England it seemed so frightfully intimate to not only be living with the man he had spent centuries hating, but to also parade around in his clothing day in and out. It was as if France was swallowing up every aspect of his life.

Those troubling thoughts bubbled and churned in the back of his mind as he headed towards the front of the house in a fog. When he reached the door he found a surly looking French man carrying a parcel in his hand waiting on the front steps. "Can I help you?" England asked and his words had the instant effect of causing the man's face to crumble.

The man muttered something to himself, before saying "I am looking for Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy" in heavily accented English.

"Ah, you speak the King's, how wonderful," England noted, speaking more to himself than to the man in front of him. "I'm afraid he's engaged at the moment. Can I relay a message?"

The man's frown deepened as he shifted on his feet. "I have papers for him."

"Oh, I can take them then."

The messenger shook his head. "They are for Monsieur Bonnefoy," he told him tersely. "I will wait for him."

Now it was England's turn to glower and he did so with the full force of his heavy brows. "Well I'm afraid that you'll be waiting for quite some time, because he cannot come to the door. So why not be a good chap and just hand over the papers?"

He watched as the man shifted once more and England saw the gesture as nothing short of a challenge. 

"Listen you thick headed twit, he's not coming to the door, so just save yourself the trouble and give me the damn thing."

His only response was another defiant stare and while England was incredibly tempted to just throttle the man and take the papers himself, he quickly thought better of it.

"Hold on a moment," England grumbled as he marched back inside the cabin to retrieve France. He found the man exactly where he had left him, lying in bed and looking intent on drifting back to sleep. Unfortunately for him, those plans were about to be ruined. "There's a man at the door who says he has some papers for you," England announced, pulling France's attention towards him and away from whatever fantasy world he had been drifting into.

France cracked a blurry eye open, giving England a dreary stare, before sighing and settling further into the mattress. "Well then go get them," he said flippantly, eyes slipping shut once more. 

"I tried, but he's being a stubborn prat and won't give them to anyone except you." He didn't bother with waiting for France to process this information and instead walked up to him and forced the man into a sitting position. "You'll have to go out and get them yourself."

"What? No!" France cried, eyes widening and face growing pale at the very idea. "I do not want to go out there looking like this! You cannot make me."

"Don't blame me, blame that stubborn git," he grumbled as he began digging through the chest for a coat and a pair of trousers that France could throw on. "Besides, it's just one man. It's not as if I were forcing you out in front of a mass of people."

"You may as well," France whined and England could tell by the pathetic tone in his voice that he was going to start crying any second now. "You do not know how humiliating it is to look this way! People always point and stare at me now that I have become so fat and ugly."

"You're not fat, you're pregnant," England pointed out, although he couldn't speak much on the man's claim about being stared at. He had noticed that during the few times that France would venture into the settlement that his awkward figure would be met with a few stares and gossipy whispers. He couldn't begin to imagine how France must feel to be forced into such a position, especially considering how proud he had always been of his looks, but that didn't mean England enjoyed being subjected to the man's constant self pity. "Look at your arms and legs, France," he began, grabbing at France's limp wrists and giving them a quick shake to emphasize his point. "You've barely gained a bit of weight in them. It's only your stomach that's gotten bigger." It was only a half truth as France's thighs had grown a bit larger over the past few months and his chest had gotten a slight bit puffier, but that wasn't something he wanted to say when France was already in such an emotional state.

"I know that I am pregnant and that the baby needs me to be big, but..." France's words died off as he instead focused his attention on pouting quietly towards the ground as tears slipped from his eyes and down his cheeks. It was absurd for France to cry over such things, but it was probably even more absurd for England to care.

"Look France you... you..." England sighed, as he scrambled to find just the right thing to say. He still wasn't quite good at being comforting. "You aren't ugly," he said at last. "And you, um, you have a very nice face."

France gave a quiet sniff as he looked up at him with watery blue eyes. "Do you think so?"

Despite his best efforts a blush managed to creep onto his cheeks and he had to struggle to say more. "I do," he went on. "I think you're quite pretty and, well, anyone who doesn't think so is stupid. And that includes you."

A gentle smile settled onto France's face and for some reason England felt his heartbeat quicken at the sight of it. "So you can be nice sometimes," France noted softly.

France stood then and allowed England to help him into the pair of trousers he had gotten for him and slipped a coat on over his nightshirt before finally going towards the door. England hung back and listened in on the conversation, out of his own curiosity and not because he wanted to make sure the messenger frog didn't say or do anything to upset France.

The two frogs instantly started croaking in French, but England was able to catch bits and pieces of their conversation. He was standing behind France and thus unable to see the messenger, but he heard the shock in the man's voice as he asked several times if France was alright, a clear indication that he was referring to the obvious change in appearance. France answered each question with a firm yes, but England could tell that his patience was fading quickly.

After what seemed like an eternity the messenger finally handed France his parcel and went on his way. France closed the door with a heavy sigh and England instantly caught the way his shoulders slumped and face fell. 

"Didn't I tell you he was a prat?" England joked awkwardly only to find that France's disposition didn't change. "And anyway, you got your papers so you can finally see what was so bloody urgent that they had to send that git out for you."

"Yes, I suppose," France grumbled half heartedly. He gave another heavy sigh before coming to stand at England's side. "Arthur, I want you to tell me something and you must be completely honest with me," he began, his tone and gaze quite serious. "Am I truly beautiful to you?"

"I-I never said you were beautiful!" England stammered, his insides feeling warm and gooey under France's gaze. "I just said you were pretty with a nice face." He watched as France's expression slowly began to crumble in disappointment and for some reason that made his throat go dry. "But, well, if you wanted to stretch it, I suppose you could say that I think you're beautiful."

A tight hug was his immediate reward and England wished with every fiber of his being that he could say he hated every second of it. "I am so glad to hear it, mon cher," France crooned as if gaining England's approval meant more to him than anything in the world.

The very idea was enough to make him shudder and England was quick to detangle himself from France's hug. "Keep your bloody hands to yourself, Frog," he braked, as he pulled France's arms away from him and pinned them at his side. "Bad enough that I have to share a bed with you..." For some odd reason that thought made him blush and England was sure to clear his throat and shake his head until he was certain the pink in his cheeks was gone. "I'm, uh, I'm going to head down to the river to do a bit of laundry," he informed him. "You'll be alright on your own for a while, won't you?"

Disappointment flashed in France's wide blue eyes at the announcement. It was strange how even after all this time France still seemed to panic a bit whenever England left his side. "Yes, I suppose so," he said slowly, "but I could just come with you. It is such a nice day and I could use the exercise."

England shook his head, because he needed to get away from France. Even if they were getting along better than they ever had in centuries it was still tiring to be around the man day in and day out. Particularly now that France had become more desperate in his needs for affection and reassurance about his ever changing appearance. It was hard enough being around the man when he had been fit and constantly preening over his good lucks, but now that he had gained some weight he had become sullen and resentful over the loss of his beauty.

"No, you stay here and read over your papers. I'm sure there's something vital in there for your eyes only."

"Alright," France sighed reluctantly. "Will you at least make me some breakfast before you leave?"

England relented to that request, because he did enjoy cooking and watching France eat his food was still quite amusing. He boiled some oats to make France porridge and then put water in a kettle to make them both some tea. France ate his meal with such contentment that he barely made a fuss as England gathered up their things and made his way to the river.

It was a sweltering morning, the kind that found you drenched with sweat the moment you set foot out your door and England was quite glad he hadn't allowed France to join him. This sort of heat would not be good for his condition. 

He frowned at that notion, wondering when consideration for France's well being had become such a constant presence in his mind. England decided then that spending so much time alone with someone was a dangerous thing. It made you do strange things like pick out their favorite food when you went to the market, sacrifice your comforts in favor of theirs, and even changing the way you spoke and acted so as not to upset them. He briefly wondered if this was what it was like to be married, but that thought was so disturbing that it literally made his stomach roll in displeasure.

England hurried down to the river, because even though he needed a break from France he still didn't like leaving him alone for too long. It was anyone's guess what could be going through that mind of his during their brief moments apart.

As he gently washed their clothes and linen in the cool running water of the stream, England couldn't help but note bitterly that even though he was calling it 'theirs' most of the things he was washing belonged to France. It annoyed him how much he did for that man -- washed his clothes, cleaned his cabin, cooked his meals, and even once, when France had whined most pathetically and England had felt particularly guilty, rubbed his shoulders -- and never once did he receive a word of thanks. 

France should be grateful to him, because it would be so easy for England to just walk away from all this. Even now, if he wanted to he could simply throw all of France's things into the river and make his way back to his own territory where he belonged. Yet he couldn't bring himself to do it and England reasoned it was because of the baby and nothing else.

When everything was thoroughly cleaned and his own clothes were completely soaked with sweat, England gathered up his belongings into the wicker basket he had carried them in and made his way back to town.

England half expected to find France sulking away in bed waiting for him, but instead discovered the man sitting at the table with a stack of papers spread out in front of him. He supposed he should have been pleased to see that France had his attention centered on something other than his own misery, but the only thing that England was able to focus on was the fact that Pierre was out of his cage and hopping around the table.

"Dammit France," England huffed as he dropped his basket in order to swat at the bird as if he were an ordinary gnat. "Keep that horrible thing off of the table! We _eat_ there, remember?"

Pierre twittered and chirped indignantly as he hopped and fluttered about to keep from being struck by England's hand. Fortunately for him, France was quick to act on his behalf and the very moment England made to swat at Pierre again he found the back of his hand being stabbed by the tip of France's quill. "Leave Pierre alone!" he ordered sternly, glowering up at England for all he was worth. "He is helping me with my writing."

"Helping you how? He's a _bird_."

France answered his question by giving England's hand another quick jab with his pen. 

"Stop doing that!" England yelped, cradling the back of his ink stained hand to his chest.

"I will when you stop acting like such a brute, although I know it will be difficult for you," France shot back. His gaze then turned gentle as he shifted his attention to Pierre who he proceeded to coo over by tickling his plumage with the feathered edge of his quill in what England thought was a sickening display. "Do not worry ma douce," he crooned to the bird. "I will not let the horrible man bully you anymore."

Pierre puffed his feathers before singing sweetly in reply and England suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to gag at the sight. "Yes, well I'm going out back to hang _your_ things to dry," he huffed bitterly.

"Would you like some help?" France asked, making to stand even before England could respond. 

He hadn't been expecting that sort of response and instantly felt guilty as France struggled to push himself away from the table. "No, it's alright," he said quickly. "It'll only take me a moment... and, well, your hands are all covered with ink anyway."

France frowned as he looked down at his palms only to discover that they had indeed been smudged black due to his own carelessness during his task. "So they are," he sighed, disappointment clear in his tone. "Alright then. You go finish your laundry and then you can make me something for lunch."

England rolled his eyes at the comment as he hoisted his basket into his arms and proceeded to head outside. He quickly strung the sheets and articles of clothing on the line that hung from one tree branch to another. When he was finished, England glared up at the sky in a silent order for it to keep from raining. It was so hard to predict the weather in this country.

When he came back inside England found France scribbling away at a sheet of paper while Pierre chirped in his ear.

"It's strange to see you working so diligently," England noted as he retrieved two plates, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese from the cupboard. "What are you working on that's so important?" He frowned at his own question when he realized that he may have stepped out of line. "Err, that is... if it's something you can't discuss with me..."

"Do not worry, mon cher," France told him, putting an end to England's awkward stammering. "I finished looking over all of my important paperwork while you were away and I know that I can trust you not to snoop."

"How can you be so sure?" England asked as he placed the admittedly merger lunch in front of France. "We are still enemies after all."

"Only in name," France said confidently. He glanced down at the bread and cheese decorating his plate and frowned in disappointment. "This is all we get to eat?" he pouted, placing a hand on the top of his stomach in order to emphasize the "we."

"I'm bloody exhausted," he snapped as he sat down to eat his own lunch. (They had finally bought another chair once France felt confident that England wouldn't be going anywhere.) "And I've been cooking all your meals for two weeks straight. You may be pregnant, but you've still got two perfectly good hands. If you're so hungry, you can always make yourself something else."

France remained silent as he seemingly resigned himself to the small bit of food he was given. He picked off the crust, crumbling them up in his hands, and then piling the bits of bread on the wooden table. Pierre chirped happily before going to eagerly attack the offered food. France smiled at the little bird, reaching out to give his feathered head a quick pat before going back to his own meal. 

England felt something inside of him pinch at the scene and for one horrible moment he realized he was jealous of a bird. He shoved that feeling away by taking a large bite out of his bread and chewing until his jaw was sore. "So," he began once he was done hiding away his feelings underneath his food. "What were you doing? You know... while I was hanging the linen."

"I was writing letters," France told him. "I had so many to respond to, from Prussia, Monaco, Spain... Oh, perhaps I should not say anymore."

England frowned at that comment. "What do you mean?"

France tittered mockingly as he ripped away little pieces of cheese and popped them into his mouth. "Well, I do not want to make you jealous."

"Jealous!?"

"Oui. After all there is no one for poor Arthur to write to. Even Pierre has a little pen pal, isn't that right Pierre?"

Pierre halted his pecking just long enough to give a short tweet in response and England didn't know if it were even possible for him to hate the bird anymore than he already did.

England wanted very much to point out that there were plenty of people back home for him to write to, but he knew it was an obvious lie. Other than his boss, who he had been neglecting to report to in order to keep France company, the only other connections he had in Europe were his brothers and he knew that they would respond to any letter from him by laughing themselves sick.

"Ah, Pierre, poor Arthur is jealous after all," France noted with a mock pout. "This simply will not do. We must find someone for Arthur to write to."

"Keep me out of your silly hobbies, Frog," England huffed indignantly. "And I already told you to stop calling me Arthur."

"I have a wonderful idea!" France interjected gleefully, clearly having ignored everything England had just said. "You can write a letter to the baby!"

England merely sat in stunned silence watching France carefully as he shifted through his things. When the man gave England a clean sheet of paper and passed him his quill he began to suspect that France was completely sincere in his suggestion. "You... you can't be serious," he said weakly, although the cheerful expression on France's face was more than enough of an answer. "You want me to write a letter to the baby?"

"Oui."

"France, the baby can't read. He hasn't even been born yet!"

"Well obviously," France scoffed and the man actually had the nerve to roll his eyes at him. "But she will be able to read someday and when that day comes she will know exactly what you were thinking before she was born. Is that not a fabulous idea?"

It did seem like a decent idea, but England couldn't shake the feeling that this was all some sort of elaborate trick. "You're not going to read it, are you?" he asked, because France had always been quite fond of blackmail.

"Of course I will not. I would never do such a thing. After all, I wrote my own letter and..." France frowned, his face growing thoughtful as he considered his own words. "Perhaps I should rewrite my letter."

"Why?"

"Well, I wrote some horrible things about you in it," he explained. "I might have even asked the baby to kill you when she grew up."

England said nothing to that. He merely gave France a sideways glance before turning his attention to his paper. He stared at it for quite some time, tapping his fingers against the worn wood of the table and trying with all his might not to start with "Dear France's stomach."

"I don't know what to write," he groaned.

"Oh Arthur, mon cher, is it really so difficult for you to get in touch with your own feelings?" France asked pityingly. "Truly you are a living model of repression. Here, I will help you."

England watched in mild horror as France stood and marched over to his side. He loomed over him, his massive belly a mere breath away from England's nose, and England had to fight against the urge to squirm away. "What are you doing?"

"Giving you inspiration," he explained. "Now touch the baby."

His face turned several shades of red at the instruction and England defiantly placed his hands firmly behind his back in turn. "I'm not touching anything!" he announced. "Now go back and sit down you twit! You're going to make yourself sick."

"Oh Arthur, do not think so lowly of me," France said dismissively. "Your concern may be charming, but I assure you I can manage to stand for more than a minute without being overcome with fatigue. Now touch our child."

Our. 

That was the first time France had referred to the baby that way and England would be lying if he said he didn't feel his fingers twitch with the sudden urge to touch, but he fought it back down. "That's not our baby, that's your stomach and I know just what you're trying to get at you letch!"

France let out an exasperated groan as he allowed frustration to over take him. Reaching a hand towards the back of England's head France pressed his cheek flat against his stomach and pinned him there. "Do not struggle," France instructed when England began to squirm and pull away, but France's grip stayed strong and fighting against it was difficult given his current position. 

After a few moments England stilled, cringing at the heat radiating against his flesh despite the fact that there was a thin layer of clothing separating him from France's skin. Every breath France took pressed his stomach closer to England's cheek and when he shifted the wrong way he found his nose brushing against his taught flesh. England closed his eyes and held his breath and told himself very clearly that he didn't feel any heat pooling into the pit of his stomach at the intimate contact.

"Can you hear her?" France asked, loosening his grip when it became clear that England wasn't going to pull away. "She hears you, I think. Every time you talk she kicks like mad."

"I doubt that," England grumbled only to find his cheek greeted by a firm little push seconds later. His heart twisted in a way that he didn't quite know how to explain, but he did find himself smiling.

"There, you see how she kicks?" France teased. Even though England wasn't looking at him he could tell there was a smug smirk on his lips as he hesitantly raised his hands and placed them on either side of France's stomach. It had been some time since he had touched him like this, and the first time that he had done so openly, but England could already tell that the baby had gotten bigger. "Now say something."

England turned his head in order to glare up at France only to find that he was currently giving him a smile that was far too warm and open. "I am not talking to your stomach," he said stubbornly.

"Why not? You did it before."

England felt his eyes widen and the color drain from his face at France's comment. "Y-you were supposed to be asleep!" he sputtered.

"I was asleep," France said innocently. "Until the baby kicked me. I told you she is quite lively."

He frowned, fighting against the blush that longed to creep back onto his face. "I don't know what to say," he huffed. "Just like I don't know what to write. It's a stomach France!"

"You are so dense," France sighed as he took a few steps back and pulled himself away from England's cheek. England looked up just in time to see the disappointed gleam in France's gaze as he began to caress his own belly forlornly. "Perhaps this really was just a mistake."

A cool emptiness filled the pit of his stomach at that comment and suddenly England couldn't stand it or France's gaze. "It's, it's not a mistake," he said softly. "I can do this."

He didn't wait for France to move towards him and instead got up from his chair to kneel in front of him. He placed his hand against either side of France's stomach and stared at the round flesh with as much intensity as he could muster. England ordered himself to relax, but that didn't help any. He merely knelt there awkwardly, fingers caressing the thin fabric thoughtfully as he struggled in silence. Taking in a slow deep breath, he proceeded to lick his lips and push out the first thing that came to his mind.

"He-hello baby," he began awkwardly. The babe responded with its own greeting: a kick to either palm (how did it manage that?) and England felt encouraged to go on. "I'm your... Well, I don't know who I am yet (we haven't quite decided that one), but I'm someone who... who..." He stopped then, glancing up at France to see the man smiling down encouragingly at him. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm someone who lo... loves you." The one word felt like a weight lifted off of his chest and England felt almost drunk by the pleasure of its release. "I love you," he said again, enjoying the way the word slipped from his lips. "I love you and I can't wait to see you. I... I know you're going to be wonderful."

Caught up in the moment England made the first of many mistakes (although he would not realize it until much later) when he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss to the swell of France's stomach. Under normal circumstances he would have caught the way France shuddered as he fought back against the moan welling in his throat, but at that moment the only thing England felt were the baby's excited kicks.

"Alright," he said after the silence had stretched on for too long. "I think I know what to write now."

"Ah, c'est bien," France whispered, his voice quivering from the strain of speaking. "I... I am glad."

\---

Once England had finished writing his letter he was quick to seal it with the wax France gave him and hide it away, because he did not trust France to keep to his promise not to read it. Soon after he went outside to retrieve the laundry and went about putting it away (with some help from France who England suspected had become quite bored with simply reading and writing all day).

Night came quickly and France decided to head off to bed early. England wasn't surprised since he seemed to be losing more energy with every passing day. England chose to join him because he did not want to run the risk of waking France after he had already fallen asleep and be blamed for his carelessness.

England crawled into bed first, shifting onto his side and lying on the very edge of the mattress just as he always did. France flopped down on the bed beside him and surprised England by lying down on his back instead of his side as he usually did. 

"No, I cannot sleep like this," he said after a few moments of lying perfectly still on the other side of the bed.

"Well I'm not moving over any further," England told him stubbornly. "If I shift over anymore I'll be sleeping on the floor!"

France offered him a thoughtful hum at his comment. "You are right," he said slowly, before pushing himself into a sitting position. "Why don't you lie on your back?"

England turned towards France, frowning at the unexpected suggestion. "Why?"

"Because I want to see something. Now lie on your back."

Hesitantly, England did as he was instructed and slowly adjusting himself so that his back was pressed flat against the straw mattress. He watched as France smiled in approval at the sight before lowering himself down onto the bed next to England. France shifted, pressing their bodies as close to each other as possible, which was only achieved by having his massive stomach lie on top of England's hip while one arm draped across England's chest. 

"Ah, this is much better," France sighed, pillowing his head against England's shoulder. "Yes, I think I will sleep perfectly like this."

England could not see how France could be comfortable like this, because he certainly wasn't. He felt as if he were being smothered by the weight of France's belly and the arm wrapped around his chest coupled with the blond head on his shoulder only served to add to his discomfort. It was bad enough having to share a bed with France, England didn't see why they had to pile on top of each other like a couple of pups huddling together for warmth.

"Well I'm absolutely not enjoying this," England announced as he attempted to free his left arm from where it lay trapped underneath France's body. "Move back to your side of the bed this instant!"

It was then that France did something quite odd; he kissed him. Kissing France was nothing new as they had done so many times over the centuries, but they had never done so like this. Usually when the two kissed it was a harsh press of two sets of lips, their mouths clashing together with such intensity that it seemed as if the two were trying to suffocate each other using only their lips. Tonight France's kiss was soft and gentle and didn't even meet his lips, landing instead firmly on his cheek. It was the sort of kiss that said "I care about you far more than I should and it doesn't scare me at all" and it made England's stomach twist in what he told himself was displeasure.

"Let us try it just for tonight," France whispered. He let out a content sigh as he adjusted himself once more hands clinging to the fabric of England's nightshirt and head tucked firmly under his chin. "Good night Arthur."

England didn't respond. He merely laid there until his heart stopped beating so painfully in his chest. He would only realize later how dangerous it had been for him to allow them to continue to sleep like this.


	5. Chapter 5

England awoke that morning to the feel of France's gentle hands rubbing soothing circles into his chest. He moaned as he swatted the questing fingers away and determinedly settled back to sleep. France, having never been one to take "no" for an answer, did not accept this and soon England found his cheek being peppered with soft, yet determined, kisses.

"Wake up, mon cher, wake up," France crooned. His mouth hardly left England's skin when he spoke and England's cheek was soon warmed by his hot breath. "It is such a beautiful day. Take me somewhere special."

He groaned, shifting under the weight of France's body as his mind struggled to wake itself. England had gotten used to their sleeping arrangements, but his body wasn't enjoying the position in the least. Every morning he woke up with his left side all but completely numbed after being smothered by France, who liked to press himself firmly against England and coil his arms possessively around him while they slept. It was similar to sleeping in a vice that was slowly crushing one half of his body. To make matters worse, whenever the baby kicked England would feel it and when France shifted in discomfort he usually ended up resting even more of his weight on top of England. It was almost as if France were trying his hardest to compress the two of them into one single body.

"Take you somewhere?" England grumbled sleepily. "You never want to go anywhere. And there's nowhere to go in this backwoods mud hole. Just go back to sleep."

"But Arthur, the baby and I want to go out," France went on, reverting back to rubbing England's chest and reframing from kissing his face... for the time being. "I have a wonderful idea: let us go on a picnic! I know the perfect spot where we could be all alone."

If he had been more awake and thus more aware of his own actions, England probably would have stopped himself from placing his hand on the back of France's head and running his fingers through his blond hair in soothing strokes. He may have even noticed the distinct note of something suggestive about France's words, but he was far too tired to have been aware of any of those things because France and the baby had kept him up all night with their combined shifting and kicking. "That sounds fine, Francis," he half said, half yawned while his fingers still combed through France's hair.

France all but hummed with delight and later on England would have trouble determining whether it was because of England's actions or because he had fallen right into France's trap. "I knew you would love it," France chirped. He awkwardly lifted himself off of England's chest and placed a quick kiss to his slack lips. "I will go pack us something to eat and we shall leave right away."

England wanted to protest, but he was simply too tired and as soon as France wiggled his way out of bed, he took advantage of the available space by rolling over and drifting back to sleep. 

\---

"Alright Frog, just where are you leading me?" England grumbled as he wiped at the sweat dripping down his forehead with the back of his hand. It was a sweltering morning in late June and England couldn't fathom what had possessed France to call the day "nice." Yet here they were trudging through the woods towards some unknown destination and England was starting to get the feeling that France was leading him to some isolated location in order to murder him without any witnesses. "We've been out here all morning and need I remind you that neither one of us has had a bite to eat yet?"

France, however, despite his troublesome girth seemed almost oblivious to the contemptuous weather and trekked on towards his illusive "perfect spot" as if they weren't now at least a good kilometer away from the settlement. "Do not worry Arthur, cher, it is not much further now," France assured him for what seemed like the dozenth time. 

England rolled his eyes at the words. He didn't like this one bit.

He watched as France stumbled, having tripped over what seemed to be a rock protruding from the ground, and England was quick to reach out a hand to steady him. "Easy now," England said, his hand staying firm on its place at France's elbow as they continued on in a slower pace. "You need to watch where you're stepping. If you fall..."

"You will catch me?" France supplied as a pleasant smile spread across his face. Somehow he managed to adjust things so that England's hand was no longer gripping his elbow, but his own palm and their fingers were soon twined together.

England felt the warmth spread into his cheeks as he tried his best to keep his gaze towards the ground, which caused him to miss the twinkle in France's blue eyes when he did not pull his hand away. 

"Alright France, I think we should stop here," England announced as he deposited the basket he had been carrying on the grass below him. He felt certain this spot would be good enough. The ground was green and even, the low hanging tree branches offered them plenty of shade, and there was no one around to bother them. 

"Yes, I agree."

England didn't register that France had pushed him until he felt his back make contact with the grass that was still wet with morning dew. His head swam from the impact, yet before he could manage to straighten himself, France was on top of him, pinning him to the ground and quite literally knocking the wind out of him thanks in large part to his massive stomach crushing down on England's chest.

"France, what the devil-" He didn't get much farther than that as he suddenly found another pair of lips being slammed against his own in a desperate, crushing kiss.

The first thought that came to his head was that having France on top of him like this was far more uncomfortable than having the man pressing himself flush against him in the middle of the night. There was a root digging into his back, a rock far too close to his head, and thanks to France's lips crushing his mouth and his stomach plowing into England's abdomen, he felt quite confident in saying that he was probably turning blue. Yet before England could black out due to lack of air, France pulled away from him, no doubt in order to catch his own breath.

"Have you gone absolutely mad?" England barked as he desperately attempted to wiggle out from underneath France's bulky frame. "Get off of me!"

To his surprise, France complied, rolling off of him with a huff and a look of dismay (yet there was still a distinct spark in those blue eyes). "You are right, this is not going to work," he sighed, or rather, panted. Relief washed over England for just a moment, before being quickly brushed aside when an idea seemed to form in France's head. "I know, perhaps this will go better with me lying on my back. You will have to do most of the work, I am afraid, but-"

"What the bloody hell are you going on about?" England cut in, putting an end to France's train of thought. "I'm not going to have sex with you!"

A look of utter shock and confusion quickly spread across France's face and the twinkle in his eyes swiftly disappeared like a candle being blown out by a gust of wind. "W-what?"

"I don't want to have sex with you," England repeated firmly. 

He wasn't at all surprised when tears started to spring to France's eyes, but England had seen enough of his genuine sobs and fake tears over the past month to have become quite immune to it all. "You lied to me," France sobbed. "You said I was beautiful and you lied. You think I am disgusting!"

"That's not what I said," England chided. "Stop putting words in my mouth."

"And you touched my hair," France went on morosely, "and you kissed my belly, and you held my hand, and you called me 'Francis,' but... but..." 

France's words soon dissolved into nothing more than incoherent blubbering and England had to fight to tune it out. He was determined to stand firm on his position, because the thought of having sex with France in his current state made England's blood run cold. England may have been ignorant about pregnancy, but he felt quite confident in his theory that if the baby could tell when he was speaking then it would be able to tell when he was violating his "mother" and England couldn't stomach the idea.

Yet staying silent and determined not to have sex with France did nothing to help his situation as France only continued to whimper and whine beside him, his howling sobs growing louder with each passing second. _It's fake, it's fake, it's fake!_ he told himself, but France would not allow himself to be ignored.

"Dammit, France, stop that crying! You sound like a wounded animal when you cry!" If anything the comment only served to worsen the situation and France soon exploded into a series of shrill sobs that made England's ears hurt and his stomach ache. "Oh be an adult for _once_!" he chided. "Besides, you've obviously misunderstood me again. When I said I didn't want to have sex with you I meant... I didn't want to have sex with you... out here."

His fumbled words were just enough to silence France as his blubbering soon quieted into a simple whimper as he gazed at England with hope shimmering in his watery blue eyes. "W-what?" he asked with a soft sniff.

England blushed as his heart began to beat wildly in his chest. It took everything he had in him to not go back on what he had said. "I... I'm not going to violate you out here in the woods like some sort of wild beast," he explained awkwardly. "After all, we've a perfectly suitable bed back at the cabin."

France's eyes lit up brighter than he had seen in quite some time and England prayed that the vague indication of the possibility of sex would be enough to hold him over. He was wrong.

"You are absolutely right. Let us head home right away."

England cringed as France grasped his hand and began tugging at it as he struggled to stand. It was hard to say what was more unsettling, France's determination or the fact that he had just referred to the cabin as their home.

"N-not just yet," he said. "It's still early and we haven't even had breakfast yet." England crawled over to the basket that was laying a distance away from them and grabbed some bread and a bit of jam to smear on it. "You must be hungry," he said as he offered him the hunk of bread covered in fresh preserves.

France pinned the offered food with a look of distain. Clearly it was not what he was hungry for. "I do not eat before sex," he huffed. "It makes you cramp."

England rolled his eyes at France's comment. He would have called it a joke if it were not for the flat tone and equally serious expression France was sporting. "Oh come now, France. You need to eat something. Do I need to remind you that you are carrying a baby?"

"So you admit that you think I am a fat, hideous beast?" he sniffed, reluctantly accepting the food before nibbling at it sullenly.

"I'm not saying that at all," England argued. "I'm saying..." He sighed as he reconsidered his words. The last thing he wanted was to say something stupid and start another fight. He decided instead to grab some bread for himself and stuff it into his mouth. The idea of avoiding a fight with France seemed strange, almost cowardly, but considering that the alternative was the threat of more tears, England decided it was best to take the easy way out.

The two ate in silence, chewing down every bit of food until the basket was empty. England expected France to start forcing him to his feet and demand that they head back straight away, but instead he found the other man scooting closer to him until they were sitting side by side on the warm grass. He stiffened when France heaved a content sigh and rested his head on England's shoulder.

"I love it here," France confessed as he admired the scenery. "So peaceful and warm."

"During the summer," England reminded. "It's bloody freezing in the winter."

"Ah oui, that is true." France shifted at his side, resting more of his weight against England's body. He lifted his hand to rest on top the swell of his stomach and England soon found himself doing the same. "Sometimes I think I could stay here forever," France went on, drawing lazy circles against his swollen abdomen. "But then I remember that it cannot be. Still, the thought of leaving makes me so sad."

England felt his ears perk up at the comment and it hit him for the first time since he had found out that France was telling the truth about the baby that they both would have to return to their respective countries someday. "You're going to take the baby with you when you leave?" he asked carefully.

"Of course. I will take her home with me when the time is right."

"Back to France." The words were spoken in a pained whisper, because it wasn't until that very moment that England realized he may soon be separated from his own child and the very idea chilled his heart.

"You could always come visit us," France assured him, placing his own hand on top of England's and offering a comforting pat. "We will only be across the Channel after all."

He nodded, the gesture causing the tightness growing in his throat to sting painfully, because that just wasn't good enough. Somehow the idea of being only a part time father to his child seemed just as bad as not being a father at all.

They sat there for a few minutes more before finally deciding to retreat back to the village. The walk back was marked by a pointed silence, because while France was now thrumming with even more gleeful excitement than he had been on their previous walk, England was now weighed down by troubling thoughts. 

He wished to travel back just an hour ago when the biggest problem he had faced was the prospect of having sex with a very pregnant France. Now he had to wrestle with the idea of abandoning his child yet again. It was bad enough the first time when he had almost convinced himself that the baby didn't even exist. Now that he knew that it was a living breathing thing with his blood pumping through its veins... His heart ached with every step he took and he cursed France for not feeling one bit of remorse for his situation.

England barely registered when they arrived back at the cabin. The fact didn't really strike him until the door was closed and England soon found his back pressed up against it. France's lips were on his in an instant, pressed so firmly and desperately that England could practically taste his want.

"Arthur," France moaned against his mouth. His hands were roaming against England's fully clothed form, far too much excitement churning in his finger tips to even begin the undressing process. "Arthur. Kiss me. Touch me."

He frowned as he grabbed the man's wrists and pulled his hands off of him, an act that took more effort than he would like to admit. "France," he began in a firm, serious voice. "I... I can't do this now."

He wasn't looking at France because his eyes were planted firmly on the wooden floor beneath their feet, but he could sense the disappointment on his face as clear as day. "But you said-"

"I know what I said," he grumbled. "But I can't... Maybe later."

The slap came so suddenly that the mere shock of it was enough to quite literally knock England off of his feet (or so he told himself). The world spun, white spots danced in front of his eyes, and it took England a good minute to regain his senses enough to actually focus. He turned to look up at France who was currently glaring down at him with enough venom to make England's heart shrivel at the sight.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" England barked, cradling his swollen cheek in his hand. The wound stung, throbbing in response to the touch, but it hurt too badly for England to ignore. "Are you so desperate for me to sleep with you that you'd actually beat me into submission?"

A string of French curses spilled from France's lips as his blue eyes flashed red at the question. England couldn't remember seeing the man look so livid and he actually found himself flinching away when France took a step towards him. "Later, later, later! It is always later with you. Coward! When will you act now?"

"Well this isn't exactly encouraging," England pointed out bitterly. "And why the bloody hell should I want to have sex with you now anyway? After what you told me... Do you really expect me to break my back providing for you and the baby and then just sit back and watch as you take him away from me?"

England expected a look of shock or understanding to appear on France's face, but instead he watched as the man shook his head and grumbled frustrated words to himself. "If I did not have such a hard time bending I would pick you up just to slap you again," France groaned. "You are the stupidest man I have ever met! Do I really have to spell _everything_ out for you?"

"What do you...?"

"I do not want to take the baby away from you, imbecile!" he snapped. "I was trying to tell you that I want to live with you, here, so we can raise the baby together!"

It was unfortunate that the only thing that he managed to say in that moment was a weak "Oh," because somehow that single word infuriated France even more and the man lashed out by giving England a sharp kick to the shin. "Dammit, France, stop hitting me!" he barked as he scrambled back to his feet. "And if that's what you wanted then why didn't you just say so?"

"Because I wanted you to ask me, _oaf_!" France snapped. As soon as England was standing on his own two feet again France gave his other cheek a quick slap.

"Stop it!" England ordered. His hand acted on its own and delivered a powerful punch to France's face. He paled when France reeled back from the blow, cradling his nose in startled pain. England knew that he had only struck the man because it was routine for them to trade blows, but the idea that he had just hit someone carrying a baby made his stomach turn. "France, I-"

He didn't even get a chance to finish the thought when France decided to punch him in turn. "Get out of my house!" France ordered as he shoved England towards the door. "Never come back here! I did not want to sleep with you anyway. You are a terrible lover and I would rather become a monk than ever have sex with you again!"

England didn't wait for France to shove him again, or perhaps even throw him out the window, before he quickly scrambled out the door just as a series of loud crashes began to fill the air.

\---

England must have walked around the settlement a hundred times by the time the afternoon had begun to slip away. His face still hurt, but the swelling had gone down. He didn't mind too much since he knew that the bruises would fade within a day or two, but the fact that France had turned to violence like that troubled him. He had grown so accustomed to the man being nothing more than a blubbering mess over the past few weeks that he had forgotten about his violent side. In a strange way it almost felt good to exchange blows with France again, but at the same time England knew it was just a quick glimpse at a much bigger problem looming over their heads.

_I should apologize,_ he told himself and that thought alone was enough to make his skin crawl. 

What were they becoming? How did he come to a place where he was actually willing to admit to being at fault to France (even if he still felt very much in the right)? He reasoned that it was because France held so much leverage over him. The man was, after all, carrying his baby and he could very easily take the child away from him if he felt vindictive enough and given this latest outburst it was very possible that England had just pushed him to that point.

He sighed as he glanced over the rows of little wooden houses and towards the southern horizon. It would have been so easy for him to simply wash his hands of this whole situation and head back to Jamestown where he belonged, but something was keeping him rooted here.

"Hey. English."

England frowned, turning around to see a dark haired Frenchman standing behind him. The man was a bit taller than he was, with lines along his face and streaks of white in his hair and England soon recognized the man as the carpenter he had purchased the chair from. He was carrying what appeared to be a wooden cage in his arms and was only able to use his body language to signal for England to come closer.

"Are you talking to me, friend?" he asked as he approached the man.

"See any other English around?" the carpenter asked in a heavy French accent and the question only made England feel even more like bolting. "This is for you," he said, motioning towards the wooden object in his arms.

England's frown deepened as the man deposited the bulk in his arms and England couldn't quite figure out whether he was supposed to feel grateful or insulted. "Grand. I've always wanted a crate."

"It is... how do you say? ... a place for the baby to sleep," the man explained carefully. 

"A cradle?" England supplied.

"Oui. A cradle. "

He felt the color drain from his skin as his green eyes took in the hunk of wood that now clearly looked like a cradle in his eyes. "H-how?"

"I assumed you and your wife may want this," he told him. "I was surprised when you did not ask me to make one so I did anyway."

"My... my wife?" 

"The pretty blonde woman," the carpenter went on. "We were all relieved when you showed up. We thought she was embarrassed about carrying a bastard. It is good to see that she was just hiding an English husband. It is better than no husband, yes?"

England didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the other man's words. The carpenter thought France was a woman. The entire _town_ , it seemed, thought they were married. He reasoned that it was far better than having them know the truth, but the idea that people saw them in such a manner made his stomach feel cold.

"Well, um, I'm afraid I can't pay you," he began, but the carpenter cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"A gift then," the man said. England thought that the conversation would end there, but he could tell from the way the man scrunched his eyes and studied his bruised cheeks that it was just beginning. "What happened to your face?"

He blushed, shifting awkwardly under the scrutiny. "I... well..."

"You had fight with the wife?" he asked, a knowing smirk on his face. The carpenter hummed as a far off look settled on his features and England imagined that the man was recalling a hundred or so similar occurrences of his own. "I know all about that. Back home, I have a wife. We have four children. I can tell you first hand, they get crazy when they are pregnant."

England gave an awkward chuckle at that comment. "Yes, well..."

"I will do you a favor English," the carpenter began as he slung a far too friendly arm across England's shoulder. "Since you are young, I will teach you about women."

"Well I don't really-"

"First," the man interrupted, having clearly drifted off into a world of his own. "You must remember that when they are pregnant, they are crazy. Everything you say is wrong and everything they say is right, so you have to always apologize."

"I'm not apologizing to that bitch!" he snapped, the word rolling off of his tongue with surprising ease. " _I_ was right."

The man gave him a condescending chuckle coupled with an insincere pat on the back that made England want to choke him. "Yes, yes, you were right," he sighed. "But for now you must be wrong or else you will be out in the cold tonight. Second, and this is important for always, never apologize empty handed. Just over the hill in the west is a field of wild flowers."

"Flowers?" England repeated skeptically.

"Flowers, English," the carpenter confirmed. "All women love flowers."

To his shame England actually found himself nodding along and it took him an embarrassing amount of time to remember that France was most certainly not a woman.

"Now, when you go home you will look your lovely wife in her eyes and say... what is her name?"

"Uh, Francis," England supplied, grateful that France's human was so androgynous.

The carpenter nodded in approval. "You will look her in the eyes and say 'Francis, I love you and I am sorry.' She will be all yours then. Simple, yes?"

England blanched at the very idea of telling France he loved him. Apologizing would be bad enough, but a fake confession of love was just a step over the line. "I don't think I can do that," he grumbled.

"You English," the carpenter huffed with a roll of his eyes. "You are all too reserved for your own good. You have no passion in your soul! But if you want to win Francis back, you must speak from your heart." The carpenter emphasized his point by slamming his massive palm against England's chest and the fight against the urge to kill the frog was almost too much for him. "Go young English. Go win your Francis back."

"Um, alright," he muttered, detangling himself from the man's grasp. "Thank you for the cradle. And the advice... I suppose."

\---

Sneaking back inside was difficult, especially when his arms were full, but England managed to force his way back into the cabin without making too much noise. The sun had already set by the time he returned and he was pleased to find that France had gotten the fire started without him. Tip toeing across the creaky wooden floor boards, England quietly made his way towards the back room where he found France lying in bed fast asleep. That was no real surprise, because France was always asleep, but what did surprise him was the ugly black bruise that had spread across France's puffy face. 

It was strange that his heart actually ached at the sight when his own face was covered in twice as many bruises. What's more, he could count on his hands and feet worse things that he had done to France in the past, but tonight... tonight he felt like an ass. 

He swallowed the sigh welling up in his throat as he gently put the cradle down on one end of the room, before grabbing the bouquet of flowers he had picked and heading over to the bed. England swore that if this didn't work he was going to beat the tar out of that meddlesome frog carpenter.

"France?" he whispered, nudging the man's shoulder gently. "France, wake up."

A soft moan escaped his lips as France rolled onto his back and blinked up at England. For a moment his blue eyes sparkled with delight at the sight of him, but it lasted only a moment as indignant anger quickly returned to his gaze. "It is you," he sneered sleepily. "Go away. I told you never to come back."

"I know, but..." England stopped himself there as he recalled the carpenter's advice. He cleared his throat as he slowly knelt down beside France's bed. He watched as France's eyes widened at the sight of the bouquet and England was just grateful to have his attention. "France, I..." The words caught in his throat, stabbing at his mouth as he fought to push them out, but it was like spitting up shards of glass. "I... I'm sorry, Francis. I was wrong."

"Oh Arthur!" France swooned, sitting up with more speed than England had seen in weeks and wrapping his arms tightly around England's neck. A warm, wetness soon greeted his shoulder as France buried his face against him, sobbing and panting into his side. "Oh Arthur, Arthur," he chanted, his words quivering with every breath. He watched as France pulled away from him, tears dripping down his cheeks and eyes brimming with something England couldn't quite name. "Look at your face," he crooned regretfully. "How could I have done that to you?"

England flinched as France gently brushed his finger tips against his cheeks and the gesture was enough to cause fresh tears to spring to France's eyes. "I got in a good shot of my own," England noted, gesturing towards France's swollen nose. "I'm sorry I hit you. It was terrible of me to do that to you... given your condition."

"I should apologize too," France sniffed sheepishly. "I was angry. I went too far. I am sorry."

England felt a bit thrown off by the sincerity of France's unexpected apology. Perhaps the carpenter's theory about flowers applied to nations as well. "Well, I'm glad to hear it."

"Arthur," France began slowly, loosening his grasp on England's neck. "There is something else I should say." England watched as France shifted, offering him room to sit on the bed. England did as he was directed, moving from his crouched position and proceeding to park himself across from France. He waited as France sighed, taking a long slow breath before speaking again. "You do not have to live with me. You do not even have to sleep with me. I just..." His voice trailed off, but the hands on England's shoulders tightened as if desperate to hang on to something. "I was seeing things. I understand that I am ugly and a burden and that you hate me and always will. I understand that you are only here because you feel sorry for me and want our baby." Thick tears fell from France's eyes and England could practically hear the man's heart breaking as he spoke. "That is fine. We can work something out where you will be happy and never have to see me again."

England felt strange inside as he fought back against the sudden urge to say words that he didn't quite understand, words that were too heavy and real for his tongue. He chose instead to gently brush the tears off of France's cheeks before gingerly pressing their lips together. England wasn't used to such soft kisses, but he could tell by the way that France moaned into it that he appreciate the gesture.

"Crybaby," he teased once they had parted. "You just love to over react to everything, don't you?"

"Arthur?"

"I think we'll need to start thinking seriously about building a new house," England went on, looking around the room with a critical eye. "This little shack is far too small for three people. And we'll need more land too. Perhaps we can build something a bit south of here... maybe just north of my settlement."

France sobbed as he leaned in to press watery kisses against England's lips, his chin, his cheeks, and every inch of his face that he could get to. "Arthur, I..."

"Wait a minute," he cut in, standing and heading towards the other side of the room.

"What are you doing?" France asked, blinking away the tears that had been clouding his vision.

"Moving this damn bird cage," England announced as he grabbed the metal wires roughly, the suddenness of the gesture sending Pierre fluttering about frantically in his cage. "I'm not going to sit here and have this bloody thing watch us while we're intimate."

"Oh, but Arthur, Pierre loves to watch," France pouted.

England allowed himself a few indignant sputters before finally moving the cage out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

"I think we should get married."

England wanted to pretend he didn't hear the commented, wanted to assume that France had been joking when he said it, but he knew right away that he couldn't and that he wasn't. "M-married?" he stammered, placing the bowl of stew down in front of France before his fingers could start trembling beyond his control. "Why on earth would I want to marry you?"

"Because you love me and want to make an honest man out of me," France explained simply, smiling pleasantly as he placed a hand on his stomach which had only gotten bigger in the past few days.

"It'll take a lot more than marriage to make an honest man out of you," he pointed out bitterly as he sat down to eat his own stew. "And why the sudden interest in matrimony?"

"It is not sudden," France said defensively. "I have been thinking about it for a while. The baby and I think it is a wonderful idea."

"Well I'm glad that you two finally decided to let me in on the discussion," he muttered as he grabbed a loaf of bread and cut them both a sizable chunk. "And I hope you realize that there isn't a church in the civilized world that would allow us to marry. Now if our countries were to form an alliance..."

"That will never happen," France sighed morosely. A forlorn look settled upon his features as he grabbed his spoon and began swirling his broth around sadly.

England sighed, because lately he couldn't stand the sight of seeing France so dejected. "Perhaps we can work something else out," he ventured. "Maybe we could... make an informal agreement? Set down a few rules between us?"

France instantly perked up at the suggestion, excitement nearly radiating from him. "That is a wonderful idea," he enthused. "Grab a pen and paper and we shall write some things down."

"Write it down?" 

"Oui, so it can be official."

England dropped his spoon and did as he was told. He returned to the table a second later with the paper, quill, and ink in hand and prepared himself to write. "I think the first rule should be obvious: no sleeping with anyone else," he droned, scribbling the words on the paper. "Especially not my brother."

"Which one?" France asked innocently.

" _Any_ of them," he snapped.

France responded to the outburst with an airy titter, but made no move to interrupt or protest as England continued to write. "Second rule," he put in as soon as England had finished. "We do not have to separate if our countries go to war."

"Right," he hummed. "I'll put that as 'politics will not have an effect on our relationship.'" 

France nodded in agreement and England could tell even without looking up at him that he had something else to add. "I want the third rule to be that we must discuss all major decisions about the baby with each other."

England nodded as he made a new line and wrote the suggestion underneath the previous two. They continued to toss about ideas and make suggestions until their little set of rules became quite long winded and filled with details that they both knew would be bent or broken at one point or another. When both were satisfied with what they had, they signed their names along the bottom line and sealed off the paper with a bit of wax.

"There, you're now officially 'Mrs. English.'"

"What?"

"Nothing. Just an inside joke I suppose." He frowned when he glanced over at France's stew, noticing that he hadn't touched it since England had set the bowl down in front of him. It was the second time that day that France had turned down a meal and given his recently acquired habit of devouring everything put in front of him, the sight of him avoiding food was more than a bit troublesome. "Aren't you going to eat?" England asked, picking up his spoon and going back to his own lunch. "You haven't had a bite of food all day. What's the matter? Have your taste buds reverted back to their old, haughty sensibilities?"

France frowned as he placed a tired hand on top of his stomach. "I do not feel very hungry today," he explained. "My stomach feels funny."

"Well, that's quite a shame," England said, hoping that his indifferent tone helped to mask the concern churning inside of him. He set his utensil back on the table and reached over to place his palm flat against France's taught swell. "Now see here lad," he chided teasingly, "you leave your mum alone and let him eat."

"Do not say that," France chided as he slapped England's hand away from him. "I am not a woman and I am not her mother."

"But... I've heard you call yourself his mother before."

"That was a joke!" France protested. "You were being serious."

England gave a heavy sigh both at France's words and a new thought that bubbled into his head. "We never did discuss what the baby would call us, did we?"

France hummed thoughtfully as he leaned back in his chair. "You are right," he agreed as he placed each hand on top of his round belly. "We have not talked about very much. Are we bad parents?"

"No," England answered quickly. "No, we've just been... busy." _Trying not to kill each other_ he added silently before pointedly clearing his throat and moving on. "I want the baby to call me father."

A sharp chortle greeted his ears and England felt his face twist into a bitter scowl. "Oh Arthur," France sighed. "You are so stuffy and predictable."

"As if you aren't predictable," he huffed. "I'm sure you want to be called papa."

"Of course," France preened and England rolled his eyes in response.

"Well, since we're coming up with names for ourselves, we might as well discuss what we are going to call the baby," he said, tapping his fingers against the rough wooden surface of the table. "I'd like to name the baby Alfred. If it's a boy, that is."

Again France chortled and again England scowled. "Oh Arthur, you do not get to name the baby," he tittered. "That is _my_ job. And I have already decided that we are going to name her 'Marianne.'"

Even though there were other questions that he could have asked, namely why France deemed that he was not qualified to name their child, England found himself asking "Why do you think the baby is going to be a girl?"

"Why do you think the baby is going to be a boy?"

England hummed. He knew a pointless fight when he saw one and he certainly didn't feel up to entering into one at the moment. "Well only one of us can be right," he said thoughtfully. "How about this, if you're wrong and the baby is a boy, then you have to change all the nappies for the first four months."

"Fine," he relented. "And if I am right and the baby is a girl, you have to change her for _six_ months."

"Why do I have to do it for two months longer?" 

"Because you were not the pregnant one."

England rolled his eyes, but didn't bother to put up more of a fight because he was certain that he was going to be right in the end. "Fine, but since naming _our baby_ counts as a major decision, then I still think that we should discuss it together."

"What is there to discuss? Our baby is going to be named Marianne."

"And if he's a boy?"

"She will not be," France said stubbornly, but after a few more seconds of being under England's pointed stare, he seemed to cave just a little. "But in the very unlikely chance that the baby is a boy, we shall not call him Alfred."

England huffed, grabbing his dish and pushing away from the table. "Well what sort of name would you pick for a boy then?"

"Mathieu," France answered instantly as if the name had been sitting in his head for quite some time now. "It is so sophisticated yet sweet, the perfect name for a child of mine."

"I like Alfred better," England muttered as he disposed of the remains of his stew.

"Well if you are going to be such a pouty child then we shall compromise," France offered. "If it is a boy, then we shall name the baby Mathieu Alfred Bonnefoy-Kirkland."

"Kirkland-Bonnefoy," England put in.

France seemed as if he were game to debate the point some more, but didn't. Instead England watched as his face turned bright red as it twisted in agony, his fingers clinging tightly to the fabric of his shirt as he doubled over in pain.

"Francis, what's wrong?" England asked, barely registering the fact that the bowl he had been holding in his hands had crashed to the floor in his haste. He pressed his hand against France's stomach, his cheek, his shoulder, anywhere he could touch in hopes of making the pain disappear, but it didn't seem to have much of an effect. "Is it the baby? Talk to me. Tell me what's happening!"

A moment or two more, France began to relax, his breathing slowly returning to normal and England realized then it had only been a few brief seconds that had seen France doubled over in pain. "It is alright," France assured him, placing a hand over his and offering England's fingers a quick squeeze. "It was just my stomach... that is all."

"Well, it's clearly because you didn't eat anything all day," he reasoned. Despite the slow pace at which he spoke, England still found his voice quivering thanks to the adrenaline still churning through his veins. He could feel his heart pumping in the tips of his fingers even as he pulled out a chair and sat down beside France. "Your... your stomach is empty so its cramping. If you had eaten your stew when I told you to this wouldn't have happened."

"Yes, yes I understand," France said dismissively, but England saw that even his hands were still trembling a bit as he made to grab his bread. He tore off a piece and dunked it into his broth before popping it into his mouth. England watched him chew, noticing that France's face was still quite red. He turned away when France lifted his eyes to look over at him. "Oh Arthur, you broke my plate."

England only nodded, because his head was too weighed down with dozens of other thoughts.

\---

He admitted that he had had a bit of trouble sleeping at first, mainly due to the miserable face France had pulled as he gingerly laid himself down to bed, but after a few minutes of lying quietly side by side, England had actually found himself drifting off, because it had been a long day and he was ready for it to end. Yet it was only a short while later -- he wasn't exactly sure how long -- before he found himself pulled awake by the sounds of the wretched moans and whines escaping from France's lips. He sat up slowly and glanced over at France. His back was turned towards him, a position that France didn't sleep in very often anymore, and he was curled up into a tight ball of pain. 

"Francis?" he began softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Francis are you alright?"

His only answer was a tight groan and England soon felt panic twisting at his heart. England got out of bed quickly and lit a candle, illuminating the room. He saw now that France's entire face had gone red and his were eyes screwed shut tight against an intense pain as sweat dripped off of every inch of him.

"Francis what's wrong?" he asked desperately, hating the way his voice quivered as he spoke. "Is it your stomach again?"

France answered by leaning over the side of the bed and emptying his stomach onto the floor.

"You're not alright," he muttered to himself as he grabbed France by his shoulders and forced him back onto the bed. Once the man was lying flat on his back, England pulled the sheets back over him. He pressed the back of his hand to France's cheek and was startled to find it greeted by a smoldering heat. 

England grabbed the candle stick and walked out of the room. He quickly grabbed a pitcher of water and a clean cloth and returned to France's side. He wet the cloth quite liberally before pressing it against France's heated flesh. His insides shriveled as France continued to groan in pain, clutching desperately at his stomach as if to shield it from an invisible attack. England knew then what was happening, but he didn't want to accept it. It was too soon. They should have had a few more weeks if not a full month. 

That didn't matter though. The baby was coming now and there was no way to stop it.

"Francis, I'm going to go find us some help," he whispered, wondering if France would be able to hear him from within his cloud of pain. "I'll be back in just a minute."

He was barely able to stand before France's hands flew towards him, catching his wrists in his grasp and clutching them with startling intensity. "England... Arthur... please," France managed to push out from between gritted teeth. "Do not leave me. Please. Please stay."

"I won't be gone for long," he assured him, prying France's hands off of him with a great deal of effort. "I just need to get someone to help you."

"Do not leave me," France sobbed as tear tracks burned their way down his face.

"I won't be gone long, love," England promised. He pressed a quick kiss into France's hair, his heart feeling heavy and reluctant even as he told himself it was for their own good, before standing and sprinting towards the door.

England didn't know why he ran to the carpenter, but his door was the one that England found himself pounding on and he didn't give a damn even if the man was asleep because he was going to help see him through this. He waited several agonizingly long minutes before the door slowly swung open and the blurry eyed man greeted him with a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

"Monsieur English?" he began, blinking at him several times to push the sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing here? It is the middle of the night."

"You've had four children," England said quickly, barely able to hear his own words over the sound of his own heart thrumming in his ears. "What do you do when the baby comes?"

The carpenter pinned him with a dull look, one that said if weren't for the fact that he had been in England's shoes before he would have knocked his lights out, before offering his shoulder a condescending pat. "Then you let nature take its course."

"What if nature needs help taking its course?"

The man's eyes widened then, the sleep evaporating from his features at that question. "You mean... you need a doctor?"

"Yes a doctor or a surgeon..." His words trailed off as a distant wail suddenly broke the stillness of the late evening, and England felt as if his insides had turned to mush. "We need help. He... she..."

"It is alright Monsieur English," the carpenter interrupted. "You return to your Francis and I will bring a doctor."

England barely managed to offer the man a nod before sprinting back towards the cabin, the sound of France's desperate moans of pain growing louder with each pounding step. Bursting through the door he soon found France once again curled into his side, face red and twisted up in pain. It was a heart clenching sight, yet even with that thought in his head he still couldn't help but think how strange it was that the idea of France in pain had suddenly become unbearable to him.

As soon as he was close enough to touch, England placed a comforting hand on his cheek and was disheartened to find that his skin was still burning up. "Don't worry Francis," he said in a voice that was as soft and soothing as he could manage. "The doctor's on his way."

France responded to this by letting out a long, low growl of pain and curling even tighter into himself. It was only then that England noticed that the bed sheets had been torn to shreds and that the straw stuffing in the mattress had been nearly clawed out. He faintly wondered if France had transformed into some sort of wild beast during the brief period he had been gone. 

"I cannot take this," he hissed from between clenched teeth. "I am never having children again. I am never having _sex_ again!"

England had to fight against the urge to chuckle at that, because he sincerely couldn't see France keeping to that promise. He swallowed the laugh bubbling in his throat and instead focused his attention on brushing the strands of blond hair clinging to France's sweat damp cheeks. "It'll be alright," he assured him. "Not much longer now."

"Do not touch me," France seethed. Even though France was not looking at him, too busy clenching his eyes shut against the pain, England could still clearly see the fire burning inside of the man and felt his skin practically sizzle at the venomous words. "Devil! Beast! You did this to me! You cursed me, you brute!"

"Francis I-"

"Get away! Get away!" he howled, mustering what little energy he had to swat at England's hand and slap it away from him before returning to his fetal position. "I hate you! I do not want you near me!"

England wasn't fazed by France's words, reasoning that it was no doubt the intense pain that was making him say such things, but the sound of the front door creaking open greeted his ears and caused him to take a step away from the bed. France must have misinterpreted his actions as the man suddenly reached out to grab England's wrist and drag him back towards his side. 

"What are you doing? Where are you going!" France shrieked frantically. "Do not leave me! I need you. Stay! Stay!"

"Dammit Francis," England groaned as he tried in vain to pry the man's hands off of him, but his grip was vice like and would not be removed. "The doctor is here, you twit!"

Sure enough, amidst his pathetic attempts to detangle himself from France, the carpenter entered the cramped little room with a frail looking old French man following behind him. "I brought you a doctor," the carpenter told him. "I am afraid he only speaks French."

"That's fine, fine," England said quickly as he finally managed to disentangle himself from France's grasp only to find finger shape bruises now decorating his arm. "Thank you. We can take it from here."

The carpenter whispered a few words to the doctor before turning towards England to offer him a reassuring nod before making his exist.

As soon as he was gone, the doctor muttered something and knelt down beside France, speaking to him in slow, comforting French. England stood back awkwardly, wondering if he should say anything to the man about France's condition, yet when he watched the withered old face turn positively white after his eyes got a good look at France's vital regions he knew that he didn't need to bother.

"C'est un homme!" the old doctor cried, scrambling away in absolute horror.

"D-don't be absurd!" England stammered, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could even process what he was saying. "I'll have you know that that's my wife you're talking about! She may have a few extra parts, but I assure you she is a woman. Elle est une femme. Une femme!"

England knew it was a blatant lie and that even a blind man could see through it, but he was pressed for time and couldn't think of anything better to say, not when France was moaning so pitifully in his ears. Yet in spite of all of this England still felt himself fly into a white hot rage when the old man turned towards him with a very confused look on his face and gave him a soft "Quoi?"

He growled, grabbing the old man by the collar of his shirt and giving him a good shake. England was certain he'd feel absolutely terrible about this later, but at the moment it was more important for him to get the doctor to do what he needed than to be considerate of his fragile old body.

"Listen here you withered old frog," he barked, giving the old man another good shake just to get his point across. "My _wife_ is having a baby and if I say she's a woman then dammit she's a woman! Now get your head out of your arse and carve that little bugger out of her stomach or I'll take a knife and cut off a few of _your_ extra parts. Elle est une _femme_! Une _femme_!"

When he finally released the old man from his grasp he was shaking so badly that England felt certain he would fall over and he briefly wondered if he had been a bit too harsh. "Une femme," the man agreed with a nod. "Elle est une femme."

England nodded, satisfied with the man's response. 

The doctor turned to France once more and said something that England was certain was supposed to be reassuring, but he couldn't quite catch it. Whatever it was, it caused France's eyes to fly open and his skin to go ashen. It seemed that it was only then that France finally realized exactly what was about to transpire and it frightened him more than it did England.

"Arthur, please," France began, stretching out his hands towards England and motioning for him to come closer. England couldn't find it in him to refuse him this one request and did exactly as he was told. He knelt down next to France, who instantly twined their hands together in another crushing grip. England tried not to whimper at that or the doctor who was currently pulling out several sharp objects in preparation for ripping France open. "Arthur, I do not think I will make it," he sniveled and England was horrified to see that France was being completely serious.

"Don't be so overly dramatic," he chided. Yet even as he spoke the words, England felt his insides shrivel and grow cold. It wasn't very long ago that he had dreamed of a world without France in it, but now the very idea was enough to make him ill. "You... you're going to be just fine."

"Listen to me, please," France whispered, voice quivering and tears burning their way down his cheeks as he spoke. "There is something very important I want to say." France stopped to take a long breath and England knew that he was doing it because the pain and emotions churning inside were just too much for him. "I cannot say that I have always loved you, but I know that I love you now. These last few months we have spent together..." France drifted off again, his eyes clenching shut as he tightened his grip on England's fingers. His grip was almost tight enough to crush England's bones, but he fought against the urge to cry out and waited patiently for France to come down off of the wave of pain. After what seemed like an eternity France let out another long breath and looked into his eyes once more. "I just want you to promise me that if I die tonight you will take care of the baby."

"Dammit, Francis, nothing's going to happen," England insisted, but the tears blurring his vision didn't make him very convincing. "But... but if something does, " it was hard to blink past the tears in his eyes or speak over the lump welling in his throat, but he just barely managed it. "Th-then I want you to know that I love you too and... and I don't care what our bosses say or the church says because I'm going to marry you and I'm going to give you the biggest ring that will fit on your slimy frog fingers and we'll have the grandest, most extravagant wedding imaginable just so I can tell the whole bloody world that I love you."

France was bawling by then and England felt a dull ache form in the pit of his chest. "You coward!" France sobbed. "Why did you have to wait until now to tell me that you loved me?"

"You waited until now to tell me," England blubbered. 

"I was waiting for you to say it first because I did not want to scare you."

"Well you should have known better." A pathetic, choking cry erupted from his lips and suddenly England found it impossible to see through his own tears. "I love you, Francis!"

"I love you, too."

"I want this bloody night to be over with," he sobbed. "I just want it to be morning so we can spend the day just the three of us: you, me, and the baby."

"I want that, too!"

The two cried and blubbered and carried on in a pathetic display of emotion for so long that they forgot that they were lifelong rivals. England was grateful to the doctor for waiting as long as he did before finally forcing them apart. He left the cabin reluctantly, but not before getting one last kiss from France's tear soaked lips.

\---

His insides hurt, his head throbbed, and every inch of his body felt absolutely numb. The late night air was hot against his skin and the stars twinkling overhead gave him no comfort because all England wanted in that moment was to know that France was alright. Instead he was stuck sitting out in the dark waiting. "What the devil is taking so long?" he groused, hugging his arms to his stomach and glaring down at the dirt. "When will he be done already?"

The carpenter gave no answer, because clearly he had none. England didn't mind. He didn't expect him to know. He was just grateful for the man's presence, because he felt certain that he would have gone mad if he had to wait it out on his own.

He looked up when the man pressed something into his side and England was pleased to see that it was a bottle of wine. He took it without so much as a word of thanks and quickly emptied the bottle in one gulp. The carpenter stared at him in a mixture of horror and awe, but England didn't acknowledge it. He didn't feel anything other than the ache in his chest and the dull pain just behind his eyes. 

His mind began to swirl with a thousand dizzying thought. He wondered if the old doctor had sliced France open yet. He wondered if he had felt it. He wondered if the baby was alright.

He felt sick.

"I'm never having a baby again," he muttered to himself.

A firm hand fell to his shoulder then and England was irritated to hear the carpenter laugh sympathetically at him. "It gets easier, mon ami," the man assured him, but England couldn't believe him.

It was then that he heard it: a shrill, beautiful, ugly sound that cut through the stillness of the night. His heart jumped in his chest and his skin began to prickle with excitement. Time seemed to speed up and slow down in that moment, because England didn't even remember standing or the door opening, he only saw the doctor at his side, shaking his slack hand in his.

He began to speak and the carpenter was quick to translate for him.

"The woman is fine," the carpenter relayed. "The babies are fine. They are resting."

A wonderful weightlessness over took him in that moment as England drank up the words that he had waited all night to hear. "That's wonderful news! I'm... wait a tick. _Babies_?"

The carpenter repeated the question back to the doctor, who only smiled and motioned for England to follow him back into the cabin. He did as he was told, following close behind the old man as if in a fog. When they reached the back room, England's eyes instantly fell on the wooden cradle situated in the corner of the room and saw that it now held two, pink little children wrapped in swaddling clothes.

"Babies," he repeated, the words falling from his numb lips without thought.

"Congratulations, Monsieur English," the carpenter cheered. "You have twin boys!"

Twins. He had twins. They had twins.

He was a father.

The concept was so abstract, so foreign to him that England actually found it painful to wrap his mind around. Yet as he gazed down at the two identical bodies sleeping peacefully in their little bed, he felt his heart fill only with love. England leaned in to get a better look at them, brushing the tips of his fingers against the fine strands of blond hair clinging to their heads and listened to them coo in response. It was almost too much for him to stand.

It was only then that he remembered France. He looked over to their bed and saw France's body lying still and flat on his back on the damaged bed. The doctor must have changed the sheets, because the shredded blanket that had been lying in tatters before was gone and a fresh one was now draped up to France's chin. His skin was completely devoid of color and sweat was still coating every part of his body. If it weren't for the steady rise and fall of his chest, England would have felt certain that the man was dead.

"Is he... Is she going to be alright?" England asked, mindful to watch his pronouns with his present company.

The carpenter once again acted as a translator, repeating England's question over to the doctor who gave him a quick and steady answer. "She is weak, but she will be fine," the carpenter relayed. "She will likely wake up in the morning and feel sore for a week or so."

England nodded, taking in this new information. He suspected that France would probably recover faster than a normal human would, but that still meant that he'd probably have to stay in bed for a few days, which meant that England would have to take care of the twins on his own. (Wonderful. He may have won the bet, but France had once again managed to escape doing any work himself.) Yet even with that thought in mind, England felt his heart so filled with joyous relief that he leaned in and placed a quick kiss to France's sweat soaked forehead.

"Sleep well, Francis," he whispered. "You have a lovely surprise waiting for you when you wake up."


	7. Chapter 7

Despite the fact that France and the twins had spent the remainder of the night sound asleep, England found himself far too wound up to get any rest himself. He had used up most of the early hours before sunrise pacing the cabin in a fit of worry, constantly checking on France or the babies and jumping at the slightest noise. 

By the time morning had come, England decided to brew himself some tea in the hopes that it would calm his nerves. When that didn't help he considered making breakfast, but then stopped when he realized that he wasn't hungry and wasn't certain that France would be either after what he'd gone through. 

Then there were the children. England didn't know much about babies, having avoided them most of his life, and wasn't particularly knowledgeable about what a newborn's diet consisted of. He was fairly certain that they needed milk, but he wasn't at all sure what kind would be best. Sipping the remainder of his tea and glancing out the window towards the rising sun England wondered how long babies usually slept, when they would need to give them their first bath, how much milk they would need in a given day, and how soon before they needed to be changed. He sincerely hoped that someone wrote a book on the subject of babies in the future and made it widely available for clueless people like him.

The sound of Pierre's far too happy twittering broke the early morning calm and when England headed into the backroom, intent on silencing the bird before he could disturbed anyone, he found that France was already starting to wake up. He watched as France's heavy lids slowly began to lift themselves, revealing blurry blue eyes that took in their surroundings sluggishly. France's head didn't so much turn as it did lull over to one side while his eyes blinked so painfully slow that England actually found it quite annoying.

"England," France began weakly, his voice no more than a soft whisper. "Arthur, where am I?"

England walked over to his side and held France's hand in his. The tired fingers slowly curled themselves around his in response to the touch and England rewarded the hand by offering it a comforting stroke. "You're at home with me." England wasn't quite sure why he had referred to this drab little cabin as their home, but it was the first thing that came to mind when describing it. "Everything's alright now. How do you feel?"

"Empty," France said automatically. As soon as the word fell from his lips, France's eyes widened as a flood of memories seemed to come back to him. "The baby. What happened? Where is she?"

He chuckled as he gave the back of France's hand a condescending pat. England couldn't wait to knock the smug bastard off of his high horse. "The babies are just fine," he assured him. "They're sound asleep in their cradle."

France's entire body seemed to go absolutely slack at that, his eyes slipping shut and a heavy sigh escaping his lips. England had to admit that it was quite nice to see France relax so much after hearing that everything had gone well (even if he still hadn't caught on to the most vital part of his statement). "Thank God," France breathed, his fingers clutching England's in a silent show of thanks. 

It was surprising how long it took for France to finally realize what he had said, and England chalked it up to the fact that he was still recuperating from being torn open the previous night. After a minute or two more, his eyes suddenly snapped open and despite the stiffness no doubt encasing his body, France actually managed to sit up and stare at him. " _Babies_?"

"Lay down, you twit! You're still recovering, remember?" England chided, only to find his attempts to push France back down met with a startling amount of resistance. "Yes, babies," he sighed, giving up on forcing France down and deciding to just adjust the bedding in order to make him more comfortable. "Twin boys no less."

A pathetic sniffle soon greeted his ears and when he turned his attention back towards France he saw tears shimmering in his blue eyes. "Twins?" he sobbed. "We have twins?"

The "we" got to him and England actually felt his heart clench in response. 

"Give them to me," France ordered, arms out stretched in anticipation. "I want to see my darlings."

Normally England would have chided France for his bossy tone, but he decided to let it go given everything that had happened. He instantly went over to the cradle and found that the two newborns were still fast asleep, curled together for warmth. They both looked so tiny and frail that England could hardly bring himself to breath near them.

"Arthur? What is taking so long?" France whined. "I want to see the babies that I had been carrying inside of me for eight long months."

England swallowed against the knot building in his throat as he reached down into the cradle and suddenly found that his hands were shaking. He had never touched a baby before and suddenly the idea of accidentally hurting one of them made his stomach coil.

"Hold on," he muttered, half to himself and half to France, as his hands continued to hover above the sleeping twins. "I've never really done this before."

"Fine, if you are too scared then I will do it myself," he huffed, yet as soon as he shifted to get out of bed, France soon found himself hissing in pain at the sudden movement that his lower half clearly wasn't ready for. France's hands quickly flew to his side, cradling his tender midsection before finally collapsing back onto the bed.

"Are you alright?" England asked, fighting the urge to come running to France's side.

"Oui," France answered feebly as he carefully prodded his stomach to make sure his stitches hadn't popped. "I am fine."

"Well it serves you right, Frog," he snapped despite the concern that had been churning inside of him seconds ago. "Now just lay back and concentrate on not hurting yourself." 

His eyes flickered from one twin to the other, trying to decide which one to practice carrying. After a few seconds of internal debate England settled on the twin sleeping on the left side of the cradle and -- slowly, carefully, gently -- reached down and lifted the baby into his arms. The infant stirred, whining and whimpering in displeasure and England wasn't sure if it was because he was being taken away from his brother or because England wasn't doing a very good job cradling him. His arms were quite stiff, with one trembling hand holding the tiny head as securely as he could manage while the other concentrated on not jostling the little body. England imagined that the position couldn't feel very comfortable. Pushing that thought aside England quickly (yet carefully) walked over to the bed, the few steps feeling like a great distance as he moved with the precious creature in his arms, and deposited the infant into France's waiting embrace.

To his great annoyance, France took to holding the baby like a duck to water, cradling him quite naturally against his chest and rocking the child at a steady pace until he fell silent once more. "How sweet you are, mon petite," France crooned lovingly. "You remember your Papa do you?"

The baby responded to the question by letting out a gentle gurgle and reaching his little hand out towards France. France was practically beaming as he offered the newborn his finger, which he happily accepted. 

"Such a strong little grip you have," he said as he raised the little pink hand to his lips and pressed a warm kiss to the tiny fingers. The tears had reappeared by then, glistening in France's blue eyes and trailing down his cheeks as he stared down at the baby as if it were the only thing in the world. "The other one?"

England blinked in confusion at the sudden question. "What?"

France spared him a brief glance, acknowledging England for what seemed like the first time in ages, before drawing his attention back towards the baby. "The other twin," he clarified. "I want to see this handsome little man's brother."

He fought against the urge to groan at the idea of repeating the same torturous trek with the other infant as he turned back towards the crib. The other baby was wide awake now, and was looking about the cradle as if in search of his missing sibling. England quickly gathered him into his stiff arms and soon found his ears greeted by the same displeased whimpers. Clearly he would need to practice the art of baby handling. They joined France and the other twin on the bed quite quickly and England decided to simply sit across from France while holding the child aloft in his arms.

England watched as France's watery eyes widened at the sight of the other twin. He could practically see his heart melting a second time at the sight. "They look so alike," France commented. "I cannot believe that there were _two_ of them inside of me! No wonder I got so fat."

"You weren't fat," England pointed out quickly. "And frankly, given that you were carrying two babies, it's a wonder you remained as small as you did."

"I suppose you are right," France sighed wistfully, although England could tell that he no longer cared about the details given the wonderful results. "They are so cute. And they look just like me! How wonderful."

A frown quickly settled upon England's face at that comment, because he could see little bits of himself on the boys. He would have pointed out as much if he weren't suddenly struck by the way France was examining the twin in his arms. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure that he is healthy," France said off handedly as he gently looked at all ten of the baby's little fingers, before gently unwrapping him to check over his little toes. He continued to gently poke and prod at the child, his ministrations producing soft noises of protest from little lips, before finally deciding that he was satisfied.

When he was done, England went to work on the other twin (feeling more than a bit embarrassed that he hadn't thought to do so earlier), counting each finger and toe and checking for any little blemishes or bruises. Everything was in order to his eyes as his gentle touches were only met with sleepy coos and the feel of soft baby skin.

"Can you believe how small they are?" France asked, his mind having drifted back to a place where there was only love and cute little babies. "Look! His foot is smaller than the palm of my hand."

"Feel how smooth their skin is," England said, joining in on the fun. "Have you ever felt anything so soft?"

"And his little toes! They are like tiny little peas."

"And his hair. It's like threads of silk!"

The two continued cooing and fawning over their newborn children for far longer than they probably should have. Anyone watching the display at that moment would have never guessed that France and England had both lived through and fought in more wars then either would like to recall. 

They soon settled into a comfortable silence, the twins having dozed off in their arms, and England had to wonder just how much sleep babies needed. "We should name them," England whispered after a moment. "We can't keep calling them 'the babies' or 'the twins' for the rest of their lives."

"You are right," France said thoughtfully. He hummed gently to himself, brushing his fingers against the baby's round cheeks as he gazed down at him. "What would be a good name for this handsome little face? I do believe he has the face of an Alfred, don't you agree?"

England actually felt his heart expand at the question, a feeling that only grew when he saw that France was gazing back at him with absolute sincerity. "Yes, that sounds suitable," he managed to choke out. England quickly cleared his throat before looking at the baby sleeping in his own arms. "And this little one has a face that is both sweet and sophisticated. He's a Matthew if I've ever seen one."

France beamed in approval at the name. "Mathieu and Alfred. Yes, that has a nice ring to it. Mathieu and Alfred Bonnefoy-Kirkland."

"Alfred and Matthew Kirkland-Bonnefoy," England offered.

France shrugged. "We will figure it out."

\--

The years that followed were what both England and France would come to call the best of their long lives. During that time the two struggled to get a handle on parenting and raising twins, but found that they worked quite well as a team and settled on a good balance between each other. Although France had technically lost their little wager since the twins were in fact male, he protested England's victory on the grounds that it had turned out to be a _pair_ of boys that he had carried. They eventually allowed the whole matter to be dropped and decided to split responsibility for the twins, nappies and all, between the two of them. 

France's particular sense of taste re-emerged soon after giving birth and once he had regained his strength, England found himself cooking less and cleaning more. Not that he minded anymore as everything truly did begin to feel like "theirs" and not just "France's" after a while.

The babies didn't stay identical for long as their own unique features and personalities began to establish themselves within a few days after their birth. Matthew, whose hair had grown into a darker honey color and his eyes settled into a more violet hue, was the more reserved of the two. He was so quiet and docile that there were times that France and England forgot that he was even there. Matthew slept more and ate less and always seemed content to just lie quietly in the arms of whoever held him.

Alfred, with his wheat colored hair and vibrant blue eyes, was both the neediest and the most independent of the twins. He was constantly crying and whining for attention, yet was never able to stay still for very long. He was the first to crawl and the first to walk and always seemed eager to use his new found mobility to explore his surroundings. Yet if England or France were ever to give Matthew more attention than him, the walls would soon shake at the force of Alfred's needy cries.

The family spent a year living in the cramped little cabin, during which time France was forced to continue playing the role of "Mrs. English" or else risk having the villagers grow suspicious of them. It was a part that France didn't mind slipping into as he viewed the whole thing as something of a game. He even wore the occasional dress when in the mood and explained his tendency to wear trousers to the villagers as "thrift," citing that sharing clothes saved money. (England had gotten quite used to lying to people over the centuries, but it always amazed him the tales that the simple minded would buy into.)

Yet a full year was far too long for four people to share a cabin with little more than one room and England was quick to set about a commission to construct a more suitable home for them, something large and isolated so that they could safely be themselves away from questioning eyes. They moved in before the next winter and spent four wonderful years there.

It was during this time that England noticed something very peculiar about their children: they stopped aging. The twins had developed to around the level of two year olds and remained in that state for quite some time. France must have noticed it as well, but neither one made to comment on it. They were just content to enjoy the simplicity that an extended childhood granted.

Five years was all they had together before their real lives came crashing back in. The notices and orders that England had turned his back on in exchange for being with France soon caught up with him and he eventually found himself being summoned to appear before his boss. 

The fight that resulted from the summons was the worst they had had in years. France had pleaded so desperately for England to stay with them, suggesting that they run away, disappear further into the uncharted parts of the continent and hide from the politics of their homes, but England couldn't do it. His boss would find him again and it wouldn't be long before France's boss came looking for him as well. England had left for two full years and when he was finally allowed to return, he wished more than anything that he had listened to France.

It was a warm spring day when he returned to his family. The sun was just beginning to sink into the sky, bathing the whole world in a rich golden hue, and England felt as if the sun's rays had reached out to caress everything except him. He found France and the children sitting underneath a tree, a blanket spread out beneath them and an empty wicker basket at their feet. Alfred was busy exploring, venturing into the tall grass and away from the shady tree as Matthew laid belly first in France's lap.

Somehow both boys managed to see him at the same time and their little faces lit up like the morning sun when their eyes fell upon him. They charged towards him, eagerly chanting "Daddy! Daddy's home!", before wrapping their tiny arms around his legs. England bent down and gathered both of them in his embrace, pressing their small bodies tightly against him and breathing in their sweet smell.

"Daddy you were gone for forever," Matthew pouted, burying his face against England's chest, little fists clinging to his shirt.

"Didja bring us anything Daddy?" Alfred asked, digging into Arthur's coat pocket in search of goods.

"I'm sorry Matthew," England whispered, pressing a kiss onto the boy's head and noting that his hair had gotten much longer since he had left. He turned towards Alfred, gently grabbing his little hands in his before placing a kiss to his head as well. "I'm afraid that I didn't bring anything this time Alfred. Daddy was quite busy, you see."

Alfred nodded, accepting the answer before wrapping his little arms around England and pressing his head against his chest. "'Kay, but you can't go 'way again fur a long time." 

England felt his throat tighten and his heart sink at the words and the wide blue eyes that pinned him with such an authoritative glare as they spoke. He had come here knowing that this wouldn't be easy, but he had never imagined that it would all be so painful.

"Now, now boys, let Papa have his turn," France teased as he came up behind England and gently urged him to his feet. England complied and soon found himself wrapped in an even tighter hug, with desperate lips pressed against him with a half starved sort of hunger. "Oh how I have missed you," France almost purred, pressing his body flush against England's in order to show just how much he had missed him. "I do not care what we said before. Two years is far too long to be apart."

France leaned in for another kiss, but it was only then that he noticed that England's lips were slack and unresponsive. England wanted to kiss him, to hold him in his arms and keep him there forever, but he knew that it wasn't his place to do so anymore, so he merely stood there feeling like complete scum.

"What is wrong, mon cher?" France asked, concern shining in his eyes. He placed a gentle hand to England's cheek, urging him to meet his gaze, but England couldn't quite stomach it and so his eyes continued to sink towards the ground. "What happened? Talk to me."

He grabbed France's hand by the wrist and gently pulled it away from his cheek. "France," he began and stopped himself there. It had been a long time since he had called the man France instead of Francis. "Let's go inside. We need to have a word."

France nodded, sensing the serious atmosphere building around them. "Boys..." he began, but England was quick to cut him off.

"Let the children play. _We_ need to talk. Just you and me."

The children didn't make a fuss when England ushered them off and they soon wandered across the patch of grass off to play some game they had likely come up with on the spot. As soon as they were a suitable distance away, England grabbed France by the elbow and led him inside. Once he set foot inside the little house that he hadn't seen in two long years England soon found himself crushed underneath the weight of its familiar comfort. Yet he did not let that stop him from walking over to the sitting room and parking himself on the couch.

France followed his lead, sitting across from him and, no doubt sensing his discomfort, grabbing England's hands in his own. "Arthur, tell me what has happened," he instructed, offering his slack fingers a quick squeeze. "Whatever it is I am sure that we can work through it together."

Together. The mere word was like a knife digging into his heart because England knew that after today they would never do anything together again.

He blinked passed the burliness building in his eyes and tried his best to focus his gaze on France's face. "Something happened while I was away," he began slowly. "My boss... our bosses really... they know about the children and... and I can't live with you anymore."

France was quick to drop his hands and the second he did England found himself missing the other man's fingers pressed against his skin. His face paled and crumbled all at once and England could see his heart trying desperately not to break before his eyes. "You are not serious. You cannot be."

"I'm afraid I am," England whispered morosely. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out two neatly folded sheets of paper, one with the English seal stamped on it and one with the French seal. "I have a writ here from each of our bosses giving us sole custody of our respective colonies."

France's eyes widened, confusion, disbelief, and pain flashing in his gaze as he stared at the paper England handed to him. "What do our colonies have to do with this?"

"Come off it France, don't play dumb," England snapped, speaking a bit too harshly for even his own liking. "You and I both know that Alfred and Matthew aren't normal children. They've been toddlers for seven years now! They're like us and one of them is your territory and the other is mine and we'll have to... France!"

England would later argue that it had happened too quickly for him to stop, but it was a lie because he had seen the way France had been glaring at their respective writs and knew exactly what he had been planning to do. It was what England had wanted to do, but couldn't. So when France snatched England's royal decree from his hands and tore it, along with his own, to shreds it came as no real shock. Bits of paper fluttered to the ground like snowflakes and all that remained visible from the writs were two strips of paper with the names "Arthur Kirkland" and "Francis Bonnefoy."

"Destroying them doesn't change anything," England chided. "A law's a law no matter how many papers you shred."

"I do not care and neither should you!" France spat. "How can you just sit there and accept this? How can you ask me to give away one of my children?"

"France..."

"I am not France, damn it! I am Francis and you are Arthur." Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, but for once in his life France fought against them. He fell to his knees before England, grasping his hands desperately in his own, and if this were ten or so years ago England might have laughed himself hoarse at the sight. "We do not need to do this. We do not need to accept it! We said before that we would not let politics tear us apart, so why should we let our bosses tell us how to live when they are an entire ocean away? 

"We can run away. We can hide from all of this. I know the native people well and perhaps I can ask them to give us just a bit of land for ourselves and we can keep our family together. Is that not what you want? To live with me and Alfred and Mathieu forever?"

It was what he had wanted. England wanted it more than anything in the world, but he had spent nearly two years fighting tooth and nail for it and he was just too damn tired to keep up the fight anymore. So instead of accepting France's offer, he hunched his shoulders and shook his head. "We can't keep running forever," he said sullenly. "We can't escape this. They know and they'll find us again. Besides, we're not... we're not humans and we need to stop pretending we are."

The tears came then and they were so slow and painful that England's heart could not bear to see them. No. It wasn't the tears that hurt him; it was the look in France's eyes, a look that said clearly that whatever love he had held in his heart for England was dead and buried and would never see the light of day again.

"So this is it?" France whispered, his voice already hoarse and straining with the effort to speak. "This is how it ends? You stab me in the back and rip out my heart... how fitting of you."

There were a hundred things England wanted to say in that moment, the most urgent of which was "I'm sorry," the next was a teary "I still love you," and the other was a pathetic "this is all my fault" because it was. This had all started because he had petitioned his boss for the right to marry France and things had just gone downhill from there. If he just hadn't opened his mouth...

Tears stung his own eyes, but England would not let them come. He quickly untangled his fingers from France's grasp and walked away from the couch. The sound of France's heartbroken sobs filled the room as England slowly walked towards the window, gazing out at the two children playing so obliviously.

"Which one do you think is mine?" he asked with startling ease.

France was silent for a while and England did not expect him to give an answer, but after a few broken gasps he finally whispered. "Alfred. I do not know how I know, but I am certain it is Alfred."

England nodded, because now that he thought about it, he saw that Alfred did favor him more in both appearance and mannerism. "I shall pack his things then."

"You are leaving now?" The pain in France's voice was devastating and England fought not to cringe at his words or turn back to look at him. 

"There's a coach coming for us in the morning," he explained.

"You are a heartless brute!" France spat. "I will not let you take him without letting me say goodbye first."

Before England could think to stop him, France was calling the boys. They came toddling inside, certain that they were in trouble, only to find themselves engulfed in a desperate embrace. England watched as France moaned and sobbed, burying his face between the twins as he relished the last moments he would have with them together. After a while, England started to notice that France was showering Alfred with the bulk of his attention and England took the opportunity to gently pry Matthew out of his grasp and have his own little farewell with the boy.

"Papa's crying," Matthew observed and it was really more of a question than a statement, but he was still a baby and as such didn't know much about language.

"Yes, Matthew, Papa's crying," England chuckled awkwardly. "He's just sad because Alfred and I are going to go on a little trip."

"You're going way, Daddy?"

England nodded, but it was difficult to do so with the tightness in his throat. He had intended to say his goodbyes without shedding a tear, but he had succumbed to his emotions just as quickly as France had in light of the question. It was as if hearing the words from those little lips made it all the realer. "Yes, lad, I'm... we're going away," he choked. The tears were blurring his vision, but England could see clearly the way Matthew's wide eyes were sparkling and his bottom lip trembled. It was all he could do to press that little head against his shoulder and cradle him there. "I want you to be strong for me while I'm away," he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to Matthew's soft, wavy hair. "And take care of Papa, because he'll need you dearly. And remember that even when I'm not here I'll be thinking of you day and night, because Daddy loves you."

A warm wetness greeted his shoulder and England hummed soothingly into Matthew's ear, rocking him gently in his arms, but that did not stop the boy from whimpering into his chest.

"No matter how far apart we are, you will always be with me," he heard France say. England looked towards the two and saw that France was still on his knees, sobbing and holding Alfred against his chest. Alfred for his part just looked scared and confused, not used to seeing his Papa so distraught, and tears were falling from his eyes even if he did not completely grasp the situation. "No matter what happens, no matter where you are or what you do you will always be my baby. You will always be in Papa's heart."

"That's enough now," England chided as he gently placed Matthew on the floor and moved to carefully untangle Alfred from France's hold. "You're frightening him." The red rimmed glare that France pinned him with was easily the coldest look England had ever seen in his life and he felt as if his entire body had turned frosty for one split second. He shook off the feeling as he turned his attention back to the twins. "Why don't you both go wash up for supper?"

The boys nodded, wiping the tears from their cheeks before going off to do as they were told.

"Come now France," he whispered as soon as the twins were out of sight. "We have one last night together. Let's try to put on a brave front for the children."

He reached down to help France to his feet, but soon found his offered hand slapped away. "Do not touch me," France seethed, his words like a venom that bubbled into England's skin and ate at his flesh. "Do not ever touch me again. You are dead to me."

England didn't say anything. He didn't even nod. He merely walked away from France knowing in his heart that they would never be able to go back to the way they were again.


	8. Chapter 8

**1957**

"I do not care how practical you think it will be there is no way that I will allow you to bring that dreadful old couch into my gorgeous home."

"Fine, it'll stay in my flat. I'd rather you move there instead of forcing me to cross the Channel to live in your pretentious little mud hole anyway."

"I would rather _die_ than spend the rest of my life living on this dreary little island!"

France huffed, England scoffed, and they both went back to their respective drinks, taking a short break from the argument they had been having for nearly a year now. In all this time there hadn't been one thing that the two had agreed on (other than the obvious mutual understanding that they would go through with the ceremony) a fact that was growing more and more frustrating as time quickly ran out. Well, time couldn't run out all that quickly as there wasn't even really a set date yet, just a vague idea that they would have a summer wedding.

"Bickering again you two?" England cringed at the sound and quickly looked up to see that they were now flanked by two of his brothers, Scotland and Ireland. "Sounds like the honeymoon is over," Scotland chuckled as he slid next to France in order to lean over the bar and flag down the bartender.

"You have to be married to have a honeymoon," Ireland pointed out, plopping down on the stool beside England and grabbing his pint while he waited for his own drink to come. "And these two never had a 'honeymoon phase' to begin with."

"Ah, Liam, Wallace, how good of you to join us," France sighed, oblivious to England's clear discomfort (or at least, choosing to ignore it). "Your brother and I were just having a discussion. Perhaps you two can help us to settle things. Arthur is refusing to get rid of his ugly old couch when we move in together because he believes it is 'practical' and 'comfortable.' I say that we should buy a new one when we get married so that we can have our own new furniture. What do you think?"

"Keep in mind that when he says 'our own new furniture,' what Francis really means is that he plans on getting rid of all of my things to make way for his own," England put in irritably.

The bartender came by and deposited fresh mugs of beer in front of both Scotland and Ireland and the two were quick to guzzle down as much as possible before giving an answer. "I think that Arthur's flat is full of junk," Ireland said at last and offered no other word of advice.

England glared at both his red headed brother and the glass that now sat empty in front of him.

"I think Artie's not the only part of the United Kingdom," Scotland drawled, his heavy lidded green eyes leering intensely at France's pleasant smile. England felt his stomach boil as he watched Scotland place his hand on top of France's, his calloused fingers practically dancing on top of France's well-manicured digits. "Come on Francis, if you really want to marry into the family so badly, then why not tie the knot with someone who knows just how to make you melt."

France responded with an airy titter as he slipped his hand out of Scotland's grasp and quickly made to wrap his fingers around England's tightly clenched fist. "I am sorry Wallace, cher, as much as I would love to restart the Auld Alliance with you, I am afraid that your brother is the only one I intend to marry," France assured before giving England's hands a loving pat and effectively coaxing his fingers out of their tightly coiled state.

"Well, I tried," Scotland shrugged before going back to his drink.

Ireland pinned France and England with a withering look as he raised his mug to his lips and finished off the last drops of beer. "Sickening both of you," he sneered. "The two of you have been downright revolting since your engagement."

France smiled proudly at Ireland's comment before leaning in to give England's cheek a loving peck. His brothers groaned, ordered two more beers and then quickly disbursed at the display.

"He's right you know. Wallace that is," England began as France freed one of his hands to take another sip of his wine. "You will be marrying into the family... that doesn't bother you at all?"

"Arthur, if your terrible performance in bed has not turned me away then your brothers certainly will not."

"What do you mean 'terrible performance'?"

"Mon cher, making love to you is like making love to an overloaded washer machine," France explained wearily. "Sometimes I feel quite motion sick, others I feel certain that you will dislocate my hips."

"Well if I'm so bloody terrible in bed, why do you keep sleeping with me?"

"Because the faces you make when you come are so funny." England watched as France twisted his face, his features contorting into an expression that looked as if he had stubbed his toe while in the midst of suffering from terrible stomach pains.

"You...! Is that why you always laugh after sex?"

France chortled into his drink and England soon felt the fight seep out of him. It had taken them nearly three hundred years to get to a place where they could laugh comfortably again and it felt good to be there. 

Things between them had gone south after the deterioration of what they privately called their first marriage and despite their promise not to, they soon found themselves getting swept away in politics once more. Things quickly went from bad to worse after the Seven Years' War had resulted in England acquiring custody of Canada. France had been beyond devastated and England had been beyond cold hearted as he ripped another whimpering baby from France's arms. France soon lost himself in a world of madness and political upheaval and England took the opportunity to proclaim to the world that he had been right about him all along.

Then it happened. The Great Wars, the invasions, the occupation, and France had practically been dead for all of four years thanks to Germany. It was during that time that England found himself lying awake at night remembering. He remembered a long summer where he and France had lived together in a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere. He remembered France needing him so desperately that he would cling to him at night just to make sure that he didn't go away. He remembered the way his heart had beat quick and slow the first time France had ever told him he loved him and he only realized then that those feelings had never really gone away, they'd simply been lost underneath all the manipulation and bitterness.

So when France proposed to him just a year ago England had said yes, despite the clear knowledge that France had only done so to save his own skin, because he had made France a promise centuries ago and it was time that he made good on it.

Things didn't go smoothly from there, however, because while Arthur had said yes England was forced to say no as his boss instantly rejected the proposed merger of the two countries. Suddenly England found himself in the same situation that he had been in so long ago, but now he knew exactly what he had to do. He went to his bosses and said, in no uncertain terms, that he was going to marry France -- as a person, not a nation -- whether they liked it or not. England supposed that he was fortunate this time around that Elizabeth II, like any woman, was a romantic at heart and quickly gave him her support. France's boss was harder to win over as he was still bitter at the knowledge that there would be no political or financial gain from the union, but in time he agreed and England and France, or rather Arthur and Francis, soon found themselves officially engaged.

Everything should have been perfect, but it wasn't, because France was still sick. He had his good days and his bad. Some days he could barely gather up the strength to get out of bed and others, such as today, he was troubled only by a periodic cough and showed no other symptoms of being unwell.

England watched as France dug through his pockets and patted himself down in search of something before finally pulling out an elegantly carved, silver cigarette case. He pulled out a single stick and held it limply in his fingers. "Do you have a light, mon amor?" France asked as he positioned the fag between his lips.

England smiled to himself, because he didn't mind those terms of endearment anymore. It was a clear sign that France cared for him; a fact that he had thought would never come to be again. When France's original proposal had been rejected by England's bosses, he had thought for certain that the whole idea of marriage would lose its appeal to him. After all, France had made his reluctance abundantly clear during his proposal, but England supposed it had been his stubborn crusade to see to it that they could be legally wed that had returned him to France's favor. Clearly having England fight for them was all that France had ever wanted and having France love him again was all England could ask for.

He pulled out a match and quickly lit France's cigarette for him. France took a long drag before slowly puffing out an elegant stream of smoke from between his lips. Here they were lounging casually at a bar after the first day of yet another World Conference. The whole room was buzzing, booths were pack, smoke was floating through the air, and chatter was swimming all around them, but England felt as if they were the only two people in the world.

"Fine, I'll give up my couch," he said at last. "But I'm keeping my grandfather clock."

"That noisy old thing?" France huffed, but soon found himself dissolving into a fit of coughs.

England quickly waved for the bartender to get them a glass of water as he quickly plucked France's cigarette from between his fingers and stubbed it out in a nearby ashtray. "There there, love, deep breaths," he instructed just as the barkeep handed France his glass. "You need to quit those things. They can't be good for your condition."

"They relax me," France wheezed before slowly sipping his water.

England shook his head before fishing for his personal, plainer, cigarette case from within his breast pocket and tucking a fag between his own lips. He had just lit the end when he felt France frantically tapping at his shoulder. "Look, there are the boys," he said eagerly, because France was always eager to see America and Canada no matter how many times England had instructed him to contain himself. After all, they weren't supposed to treat them any differently than any other nation, but France had never been willing to fully embrace that idea. "America! Canada! Over here!"

France waved fervently at the two, his chipper tone catching the attention of the entire room, and England watched as the brothers glanced their way before ducking their heads and leaving the bar. Despite the fact that France's gaze was turned away from him, England could still tell that there was hurt flashing in his light blue eyes and his own gut pinged with sympathy.

"Perhaps they didn't see you," England assured, giving his shoulder a pat.

"They looked right at me," France lamented, shoulders slumping morosely as he pouted into his wine.

"Well, maybe they had somewhere to go?" he suggested, his mind trying not to dwell on the fact that both America and Canada had been acting strangely all day and were very obviously avoiding them.

"Maybe we should go talk to them."

"And say what? If they don't want to talk to us, then it's within their rights. They're grown nations."

"It is not right for them to avoid us. After all, we are their-"

England was quick to cut France off, tutting away the secret that they had kept locked away in that old house back in their colonial days. It had been hard for England to turn his back on it, because those few years where they had all lived together as one little family had been the best days of his life, but he knew that they couldn't carry on like that. England was certain that America and Canada would be better off considering themselves to be just like any other nation and had been careful to keep tight lipped about their parentage.

However, while it was difficult for England, it was devastating for France. England still remembered all the times that France had attempted to see America and later Canada during their childhood with offerings of food or clothing or toys and each time England had adamantly turned him away. Once, just a year or two before France's revolution, he had quite literally come to England with tears in his eyes, begging on his hands and knees for just one quick word with his children. England had responded to the scene with a cold sneer and a barked laugh before turning the man away for the last time.

He wished that he could have been less heartless back then, but England had been in a cruel mood in those days. Today he could do no more than offer France a fond touch and a reassuring word when the twins responded to his attempts for affection with hesitance or indifference. "I'll be sure to speak with them about it tonight."

France's eyes lit up at the declaration and England had to resist the urge to groan. "They are staying with you?"

He shook his head. Normally the boys would stay at his flat whenever there was a conference held in London, but this time they had opted to get a hotel. "Alfred invited himself over for dinner," he clarified. "He said he had something he wanted to talk about."

"Well, then if the boys are coming over for dinner, I will have to get to work on cooking something wonderful for them." France quickly downed the rest of his wine and hopped off of his stool, tugging firmly at England's wrist. "Come. We must go shopping. I need to prepare."

England reluctantly followed France out of the bar, dreading the idea of having the frog invade his kitchen.

\---

England doubted what transpired was the warm family gathering that France had been hoping for. America and Canada descended upon his flat in a somber mood and proceeded to eat with a pointed lack of enthusiasm. The sullen atmosphere was striking and England was at a loss as to what could be the cause of it. He briefly wondered if America was going to ask him for money, but he pushed that thought aside. Looking to his left, England saw the crestfallen look on France's face and he wasn't sure if it had been caused by the lack of enthusiasm towards his food or the fact that the boys would not respond to any of his attempts to start a conversation.

"Alright lads," England began after he decided he couldn't take this silence any longer. "You two obviously have something to say, so why not just spit it out?"

He watched as they both shifted. Canada glanced over at America, who gave a mournful groan before reaching into his coat and pulling out an envelope. "About a week ago one of my people, this old explorer guy, found a weird old cabin along the American-Canadian border." America proceeded to produce a set of black and white pictures from the envelope and spread them out across the dinner table. "We couldn't make out anything from them, but we figured you might have some answers."

England gingerly pulled the three pictures closer towards him and France. The first was a bit blurry, but clearly displayed an old (yet familiar) house that had been chipped away by the passage of time. The second was a close up of the interior and showed two names -- "Alfred" and "Mathieu" -- that had been crudely carved into the walls along two sets of markings. The final picture displayed an assortment of old papers, the ink on which had faded away over the years. On top of the stacks lay two scraps of paper one that clearly read "Arthur Kirkland" and the other "Francis Bonnefoy."

"Why are our names all over that house?" America asked, or rather demanded, his terse voice troublingly unfamiliar. "Why would all four of us be living together?"

"There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this," England began, scrambling to think up a suitable lie to cover his tracks, but France was quicker than him.

"We are your-"

England cut him off with a look and France answered him with one of his own. Once again they were at an impasse.

"Why don't you two give us a moment?" England instructed as he waved the two off and made to clear the table. "We'll meet you in the parlor."

America and Canada shared skeptical looks before slowly going off to do as they were told. As soon as they were gone and firmly out of ear shot, England pinned France with a withering glare. "We can't tell them," he hissed.

"They deserve to know."

"They won't accept it."

"They have evidence!"

England moved to gather up the dishes in his hands, but France interrupted him, stilling his arms and giving him a look that was simply... heartbreaking. "Oh, what do you expect to happen?" England huffed. "You tell them the truth and they'll come running into your arms and we'll all be one big happy family? You need to wake up Francis. They're not yours anymore."

"They will always be mine," France snapped. He pressed a trembling hand to his stomach in a familiar gesture that had haunted England's dreams for ages. "They came from my body, they slept right here, just below my heart, and every day you tell me 'do not love them,' 'do not want them,' but how can I not love them or want them when they are a part of me!" Tears flooded those dear blue eyes and England felt his resolve start to crumble. "You stole them away from me, the least you can do is help me get them back."

Those words were enough to hit home and England found his own eyes stinging as he gave a weak nod. "Fine, we'll tell them," he relented. "But don't get your hopes up."

France gave him a watery smile and a teary kiss before they left the plates where they were and walked into the parlor. America and Canada sat side by side on the beaten up old couch that France was intent on destroying and England was only mildly surprised to find that they were just as tight lipped and withdrawn as they had been before. They sat beside the two, England parking himself next to Canada and France gently settling in beside America.

"You two are old enough to hear the truth, so you're going to get the truth," England sighed.

They proceeded to tell the twins the entire story, from their conception to their birth to the day that the family had been ripped apart. France and England both watched their faces carefully throughout their story, waiting for any reaction only to find the boys remaining quiet the entire time. When they were finished, they waited in silence for either brother to say a word, and were surprised when it was Canada who chose to break the silence.

"So... you're our parents?" Canada asked softly, testing the waters with the strange new word.

France was practically beaming as he took in the term, thrilled to finally have it used for the first time in centuries. "Oui. Yes, we are your parents."

America remained quiet for a few beats, a fact that sent a grave chill running through the occupants of the parlor, and the stony look on his face didn't help the situation either. England cleared his throat in the hopes of jump starting his reaction, Canada shifted slightly, his shoulder unintentionally bumping into his brother's side, and France waited in a heavy silence. 

"You're our parents," America began slowly, pushing the words out through gritted teeth, "and you just... abandoned us."

"That's not what happened," England chided, wondering if America had been listening to the story at all.

France made to grasp America's hand in his own, but he pulled away before France's fingers could even hover over his skin. "Alfred," France began, but was quickly cut off.

"You two were always crappy big brothers, but now I know you're shitty parents," America went on. "You... you just dumped us in the woods like we were trash and turned your backs on us."

"That's _not_ what happened!" England barked.

"Well tell that to a scared little kid who spent most of his life alone!" America snapped back. England would have loved nothing more than to yell at him, but the tears that were currently fogging up America's glasses gave him pause. "Tell that to a kid who spent hundreds of Christmases and birthdays alone without anyone around to tell him... they loved him."

The silence that settled on them was heavy and England felt certain they'd all be crushed under its weight. A pitiful sob escaped France's lips and England could already tell that the man was too overcome with his own guilt to muster up the strength to say more. 

"I'm out of here," America announced as he pushed himself off of the chair and stomped towards the front door.

Canada looked awkwardly from the door that had just slammed shut to France's sobbing figure, before his gaze fell to the hands twisting uncomfortably in his lap. At least he had handled the situation better than America, but England had a feeling that deep down inside Canada longed for the courage to echo his brother's sentiments.

"You can go now Ma... Canada," England said, taking pity on the boy and giving him the opportunity to escape.

Canada nodded, but he didn't move right away. His eyes turned towards France and lingered there for a few moments. He sat in silence, perhaps searching for something to say or do, but ended up just standing and walking out the door.

As soon as they were both gone England shifted, scooting over to France's end of the couch and offering him his shoulder in support. France accepted it eagerly, dissolving into a fit of blubbering sobs as he collapsed onto England's side.

\---

Canada didn't return to the hotel right away. He picked up a cab and drove around the city for a while, trying to sort through all the things shifting and colliding in his head. The drive helped a bit, because watching people wander around and carry on with their day to day lives had always been a bit soothing for him. Yet Canada knew that he couldn't keep the cabbie going in circles all night, so he eventually asked to be dropped off at his hotel.

When he got back to his room he found that America was already there. He was sitting on the floor with a bottle of bourbon and a pint of ice cream as something bluesy and depressing crooned into the room from the radio by the window sill. "I didn't know if I wanted ice cream or booze," America explained, shoveling another spoonful of melted chocolate ice cream into his mouth. "I got you a pint," he said, motioning towards the tub of vanilla ice cream melting beside him. 

Canada grabbed it, grateful that his brother was being at least partially considerate before sitting down on the bed he had claimed as his own and spooning the soupy mess into his mouth.

"I can't believe those guys," America grumbled. "I can't believe our rotten luck. It's like winning big in Vegas, but then getting mugged on your way out of the casino. It's like finding a dollar on the sidewalk, and then getting struck by lightning. It's like getting tickets to a Yankees game, but having it rained out."

_It's like discovering that you actually have parents, and then finding out they're the most dysfunctional couple in the world,_ Canada finished silently.

Canada understood why his brother was taking this revelation so hard, because for as long as he could remember America had been adamant in his belief that, unlike other nations, they had parents. America's evidence had always been flimsy at best and his supposed memories of having a mother were quite vague -- a figure in a powder blue dress rocking him to sleep, a pair of warm lips pressed against his forehead, a tender voice soothing away his tears -- but now at long last, America had been proven right and the results weren't at all what he had been hoping for, which was why he couldn't accept it and be content to have them.

On the other hand, Canada couldn't fathom why he hadn't seen it coming. It all made sense in a strange way, because England had been the one to tell them that they were brothers, twins at that, but had never elaborated further on how he had known and France, who was always quite universally flirtatious, had never sent as much as a suggestive glance their way. Yet if America had pieced any of this together, he had quickly denied it in favor of his own version of the truth.

Canada sighed as he dug a trench into the middle of his tub, before reaching into the nightstand and pulling out a bottle of maple syrup. He twisted off the cap and poured its contents into his ice cream. He felt torn straight down the middle. He didn't know what to think or who to side with. Mostly Canada was happy. Even though he had never bought into America's belief about their parents, the idea of having some made him feel giddy, special. True, France and England wouldn't have been his first choice, or even his second, but they were better than nothing. Canada just wished that America could share in his feelings instead of throwing himself a one man pity party.

"Don't you think you're being a little...?" The word 'melodramatic' danced on the tip of his tongue, but he held back against that. "Maybe we should hear them out," Canada suggested. "I mean, they didn't really have much of a choice. I don't think they really wanted to give us up."

"Yeah, but they did," America shot back. "They did. They didn't fight for us. They just gave up when things got too hard and spent the rest of our lives lying to our faces." America's voice grew thicker and he took the opportunity to fix that by grabbing his bottle of Jim Beam and guzzling its contents. "If they really loved us they would have tried."

Canada didn't say anything, because there was no reasoning with America when he was in one of these moods. He just sat back and ate his half melted ice cream, hoping that his brother would be in a better state come morning.

\---

The next day wasn't any better. After the talk with the boys had blown up in their faces, France had spent most of the night in a near catatonic state on the couch. England had tried everything to coax him out of it. He'd offered him wine, cigarettes, and even brought up details about the wedding in the hopes that having a scuffle over the budget or floral arrangements would be enough to stir him out of his somber mood. But France was intent on wallowing in his own misery, because he had been waiting for the day when they could tell the boys the truth and instead of having the heartfelt reunion he dreamed of, things had only gotten worse.

That night England had reluctantly went to bed alone and when he woke up the next morning it was only to discover that France's health had deteriorated and whether it was due to his illness or his own feelings of self-pity was impossible to decipher. England only knew that the sight of thick beads of sweat dripping from France's ashen skin as he struggled to breathe made him feel sick inside. 

England had a feeling that he knew just how to fix all of this, even if it would be a bit humiliating.

He stayed with France for an hour or two, making absolutely certain that he would be fine on his own, before brewing France a cup of tea -- because even if he didn't really care for the drink England was certain it'd make him feel better -- and loading up his briefcase to attend another round of meetings. 

When he arrived at the conference hall -- nearly three hours late, not that he cared -- England found that America was missing. England briefly wondered if he had gone home early in order to avoid further interaction with France and England. 

He waited as patiently as he could for the first round of deliberation to wind down and for lunch to be called in order for him to put his plan into action. 

"Canada," he called out, grabbing the startled young man by his elbow and dragging him off to a secluded corner in order to prevent him from disappearing into the crowd. "Can I have a word with you?"

Canada shifted awkwardly, his eyes drifting downward even as he allowed England to lead him away from the other nations. It was hard for England to tell what was going through Canada's head, but England was certain that he still was having trouble processing the idea that they were father and son. Not that England was feeling any easier about the situation. He may have known from the start that they were related, but England had not played the role of father for more than two centuries, having nearly convinced even himself that he and the North America twins were no more than "brothers" since then.

"I noticed your brother didn't attend the meeting today," he began conversationally. "Is everything alright?"

"Well, uh," Canada began, his halting speech a clear indication that a lie was forming in his head. "He wasn't feeling well, so..."

England nodded as Canada's words slowly trailed off. "I see," he hummed thoughtfully. "And... how are you?"

Canada's cheeks turned pink at the question and England was disheartened to note that he actually took a step back before answering. "Fine," he said, but England could tell that there were a hundred other things he wanted to say. Instead he settled for asking "How's France? I mean... France."

"Not well I'm afraid," England grumbled. "He's convinced himself that he's dying and is currently using my sofa as his death bed. Not that I care, of course, it's just that he's the most melodramatic man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing and I wish he'd pick some other location to have his little episode."

Canada gave an uneasy nod, a clear indication that England should have stopped talking a full sentence ago.

It was strange how awkward this all was. Just a few days ago he and Canada had been able to speak easily. No. That was a lie. He and Canada had always had trouble exchanging words due in large part to the boy's meek nature and England's own desire to keep their relationship as impersonal and distant as possible. The only time they had spoken easily was when Canada had been nothing more than a toddler and England would spend long afternoons chattering away to the baby in his arms in the hopes of helping him learn new words. Not for the first time, England wished dearly that he could return to those simpler times.

He swallowed the wistful sigh that longed to escape him and instead gave a short cough. "Well, I wanted to give you something," he began as he reached into his coat and pulled out two neatly folded pieces of paper that had been yellowed and withered by age. "Actually, it's for both of you, you and your brother that is. We, meaning France and I, we wrote these back when we thought there was only one of you. So, I suppose you two should read it together."

"Oh. Okay," Canada whispered as he accepted the papers into his hands.

England felt certain that the conversation would end there and gave Canada a slight nod as he started towards the other end of the hall. However, Canada's soft, awkward "Uh, Dad?" stopped him in his tracks. Suddenly the image of wide violet eyes gazing into his own as he hummed a lullaby and rocked the babe to sleep flashed before him and England actually felt his heart twist. His arms were wrapped around Canada before he could even remember closing the distance between them and England would have been content to just stay that way -- fingers clinging to the stiff fabric of Canada's blazer as England breathed in his scent and remembered -- forever.

Slowly, hesitantly, Canada's rigid arms wrapped themselves around him as he returned the unexpected embrace and England felt positively warm and gooey inside.

"Now now, lad," England chided as he pulled away from the boy, self-consciously wiping at the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "Not while we're in public."

\---

When Canada returned to his hotel room at the end of the day he was greeted by the sight of America dumping piles of clothes into an already cramped leather suitcase. "You're leaving?" Canada asked, giving voice to the painfully obvious question that was crowding his head.

"Yeah, I'm outta here," America announced as he grabbed more rumpled clothes and shoved them into his suitcase. "I'm gonna head to the airport and see if I can catch an early flight home."

"Alfred, we have another three days of meetings left," Canada reminded him, but America wasn't listening. He was packing. Canada sighed as he walked over to America's overflowing suitcase and plucked out a few articles of clothing and folded them on the bed. "I hope you know you're being a baby."

"Am not," America shot back as he rummaged through the bathroom for things to take. He returned with all the towels and a few bars of soap, which he proceeded to cram into his suitcase. "I don't want to see those two, so I'm skipping out of here. My boss can chew me out all he wants, I don't care."

"So you're running away," he concluded, folding a pair of wrinkled slacks and moving on to a dress shirt.

"I'm not running away, I'm going home."

"To hide," Canada added.

America stopped then and pinned Canada with a sideways glance. "I know what you're doing Mattie and it's not gonna work."

"I'm not doing anything," he said innocently. "I'm just helping you pack."

"Yeah, whatever," America grumbled. He stalked over towards the window sill and flipped on the radio, twisting the dials in search of something to listen to. 

Canada sighed, finishing off the little pile he had been working on before moving on to another. "France is sick," Canada said at last.

America paused in his search for a station, but only for a moment. He soon gave an indifferent huff, before turning the knobs on the radio once more. "Yeah, he's been sick for like a year. What else is new?"

"Well, England says it's bad," Canada went on. "I think you should at least see him before you go."

"Why should I?"

"Because he's your father."

A loud _crack_ filled the air and Canada looked up to see that America had managed to snap the knob of the radio clean off. "Don't say that."

"No, I'm going to say it," Canada huffed. "He's our father. He gave birth to us and, yeah that's weird, but it happened and I'm going to be an adult and deal with it. You can go be a baby and run back home and hide from the truth."

"I'm not a baby!"

"Yes you are Alfred!" he barked. Canada fought against the groan bubbling in his throat when he looked down at his hands and saw that he had ripped America's blazer clean in half. "You go around calling yourself a hero, but you just run away from things that are too hard to deal with. You're a coward."

America didn't say anything to that, choosing instead to just stare out the window at the sky that was seeping into a heavy blackish blue as the radio crooned a jazzy tune to fill the awkward silence that had settled upon them. Canada half expected America to bolt for the door or at least crush the little radio in his palm, but he didn't do that either and Canada took that as a sign that his brother was actually trying to wrap his mind around all of this.

He sighed into the tense air and pulled out the letters that he had kept tucked away in his pocket. "England gave these to me," he began as he walked over to America's side. "He said that we should read them together."

Canada handed America one envelope and kept the other. He began unfolding the aged piece of paper carefully and was pleased when he noticed that America was doing the same. "I can't read this, Mattie," America grumbled as he handed the paper back to Canada. "It's in French."

Canada rolled his eyes as he swapped the letters between them. "You read this one then," he sighed. He waited for America to start, but when he looked over at him, he saw that his brother was still staring out the window. "Alfie, what does it say?"

America sighed as he lifted the paper and started to quickly scan the first lines. "Dear Baby," he read before taking a moment to pause in order to roll his eyes dully. "I am writing to you at your 'mother's' request. He doesn't get bright ideas often, so I am doing him the favor of humoring this one. 

"I do not know what you are or what you will be and half of me is still trying to convince the other that you are not even mine, but I am absolutely certain that I do not care about that, because..." America stopped then as his eyes filled with something strange and distant as his shoulders began to slump. Canada watched as his brother sat down heavily on the foot of the bed, before finally whispering, "... because I love you already."

The song on the radio came to a gradual end and another soon faded in to take its place. 

"I did not have a father growing up, so I am not sure whether or not I will be a very good one," America went on and Canada had to admit that he was a bit proud of him for continuing, "but I doubt that either of us will have to worry, because I know that Francis is going to be a wonderful parent, although I would rather die before I ever tell him that.

"There is probably a month or two left until you are born and I eagerly count the days until I get to meet you. I know you are going to be wonderful with or without my help. Love always... your father."

America plucked the glasses off of his nose and rested his face into the palm of his hand. He didn't make a sound, but Canada could see the silent tears drip from between the cracks of his fingers. Canada placed a supportive hand on his brother's shoulder, before clearing away the tightness in his own throat and turning towards his own letter.

"My dearest little love," he began, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "You are sleeping now. You drifted off soon after dinner with my heart beat serving as your steady lullaby. You are not so peaceful when you are awake and you kick me so fiercely that sometimes it is all I can do to withstand the pain. That is alright. In a strange way I love the pain, because your little kicks are a constant reminder that you are here inside of me growing stronger each day.

"I think I will miss being pregnant after you are born, because as much as I hate being fat and ugly, I love how impossibly close we are. I hope we will be just as close when you are born. No. I know we will be, because I just know that we will be together always. 

"I cannot wait to share you with the world and show you your place in it. There are so many things for you to learn and explore, each and every little thing so wonderful and new to your little eyes, and I will adore sharing it all with you. 

"Perhaps we can share it all with your father, too. He is not so bad once you get passed his grouchiness. Things are quite peaceful between the two of us, your father and I, but I know they will not always be. When you are born, you will see that we will fight and argue constantly, but do not worry, because we will both always love you. I already know this quite well. Love, your papa."

The radio crackled on in the background and Canada suddenly felt too tired to stand anymore. He sighed as he came to sit next to America who was still busy sobbing into his hands. Canada felt his own vision blur and he allowed himself to be swept away by the overwhelming emotions.

\---

"Francis, do you want me to open the windows for you?"

France didn't answer. He continued to silently lay on the couch looking pale and weak as he stared blankly at nothing. England frowned as he watched the man's deep even breaths and knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was exaggerating his condition. He didn't know how much more of this he could take, because he was by no means a patient man. 

"I just finished brewing a nice pot of tea. Would you like some?"

His answer came as a heavy sigh as France's head lulled to its side, burying him further into the pea green couch's embrace. Within another day England was certain the cushions would swallow him whole.

He was determined not to give in and was quick to pull up a chair beside the man's prone figure. "I baked up a fresh batch of scones," he told him, setting the still warm plate on his own lap. "I assure you they're quite good. Barely burnt at all, really. Would you like one?"

France answered by blinking his eyes in a sluggish manner and England took that to mean "perhaps a bit later."

"I was thinking about popping down to the bakery today to select a cake for the wedding," he lied, hoping that the mere mention of their impending nuptials would get a rise out of the man. "I know how much you love English pastries and such."

Nothing. England decided to up his game.

"Speaking of which, I decided to set a date. With you being out of commission and all, I assumed you wouldn't mind. How does the fourteenth of October sound? I know it's not a Sunday afternoon in the summer like you wanted, but it was all they had."

Still nothing.

"Did I mention that the ceremony is going to be held at a Protestant church?"

Silence.

England sighed, shifting in his seat. "Look Francis, I know you're still upset about the children, but-"

"Children?" France repeated slowly, his voice hoarse from disuses. "I have no children. I only have two gaping holes in my heart. I gave them life, I gave them my body, I gave them the blood in my veins, but it was not enough for them." Tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, but France made no move to acknowledge their presence. "I could die tomorrow and would he care? No. No I am not his father, I am just a stranger." France's lips quivered as he rolled onto his side, burying his face into the back of the chair, his sobs muffled by the cushion. "No one wants me. No one needs me. I will just die here."

"Oh you mushy headed nitwit!" England barked as he used the back of his hand to wipe at... at nothing! Because he was not crying over this melodramatic nonsense damn it! "Get over yourself. I warned you that this would happen, didn't I? And America... well Alfred had the misfortune of inheriting the worst of both of us. He's a self-centered child like you and a stubborn arse like me. He'll never accept us and we'll just have to accept _that_."

At that moment a sharp knock came from the main door, cutting through France's pitiful sobs and ending England's little tirade then and there. 

"I'll get it," England grumbled as he stood from his chair and marched over to the door. He was more than a bit stunned when he saw America and Canada waiting for him on the other side and if it weren't for the sheepish look on America's face, England would have slammed the door on them both. "What do you two want?" he asked tersely. 

"Your house smells like a bag of flour took a dump," America commented in place of a proper greeting. "Were you baking again?"

The urge to slam the door was crawling up his hand like an army of fire ants and England satisfied himself by glaring up at the two. "What do you want?" he asked again.

"You didn't come to the meeting today," Canada said, but it wasn't much of an explanation because England could tell from their informal attire and the early hour that they hadn't gone either. "We came to check on you and... and France."

England looked from America to Canada and back again. He didn't buy the excuse one bit, but he doubted that the two were intending to cause any more trouble. With a reluctant sigh he stepped aside, allowing them to enter his flat. He ushered them into the parlor and was relieved to see that France had stopped crying (for now at least).

The boys merely stood there in awkward silence, staring at France's prone figure and shifting from foot to foot. "You have visitors, Francis," England announced, before stepping out of the room in order to bring in another chair for the boys to sit in. 

When he returned to the parlor America had taken a seat in the chair that England had been occupying and looked ready to speak. He watched as the boy frowned, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a deep breath. "Okay," America began slowly as he spoke to France's back. "So I decided that maybe I believe you about this whole... parent thing and maybe... maybe I understand now that you didn't want to abandon me. I'm still mad though, because... well because growing up alone sucks, but I'm just not as pissed off as I was before." America stopped, seemingly finished with his little speech, but a gentle nudge from Canada helped to produce a frustrated groan before he went on to say, "I was originally gonna have that house burned to the ground, but... well, if you want I can fix it up for you... as a wedding present... Pops."

"Alfred," France sobbed, raising his head and pinning America with a teary stare. America shifted, folding his arms tighter around his middle, but somehow France interpreted the gesture as an opening and soon jumped from the couch and towards America's side. In a flash France was on his feet, pulling America's reluctant figure into a tight embrace and sobbing openly into his side. "Oh Alfred. Alfred!" he wept, pressing watery kisses to America's cheeks even as he squirmed and fought to escape. "Oh mon coeur. Mon ame. How I have missed you!"

"Geez, France, I said I was still mad!" America groaned as he attempted to push France's arms away.

"Do not call me France," France chided with a teary sigh, his limbs set and secure around America's waist. "I am your Papa, remember mon coeur? Your Papa."

Canada chuckled at the scene and England rewarded him with a gentle shove in France's direction. France saw Canada stumble towards him and was quick to grab the other twin and pull him into the crushing embrace.

"Ah, dear Mathieu," he sighed, pressing his tear stained cheek against the other boy's side. "Ma vie. Mon amour." A quivering breath escaped France's lips as he took a step back in order to study the confused twins. From the way France gazed at them with such wonder and amazement, one would assume he hadn't laid an eye on his children in ages, yet they had seen each other on and off for the past few years. "You both have changed so much," he sighed wistfully. "To think that you both once fit inside of me." Tears crept back into his gaze as France slowly leaned in to give the two a softer, and perhaps firmer, embrace. "I could spend the rest of my life telling you both how much I love and missed you and it still would not be enough."

"It's okay, Pops," America relented as he offered France a stiff pat on the back.

"Your letter explained a lot," Canada told him. 

"My letter?" France blinked, craning his neck towards England who offered him only a sheepish shrug.

"Well, I thought... maybe it was time."

France beamed at him, love and warmth shining in his blue eyes as he held out an arm and motioned for England to join their little circle. He did so reluctantly, stepping stiffly towards America's side and resting his cheek against France's shoulder. Yet when he wrapped his arms around them, the fact that he was holding his entire family for the first time in centuries suddenly came crashing down on him.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, his hand groping out to squeeze Matthew and Alfred. "I'm so sorry. It was... it was my fault. All of it. Please forgive me."

"We forgive you, Dad," Alfred whispered and Arthur could hear the tears creeping into his voice. "Does this mean we can spend Christmas together?"

"Christmases, birthdays, Easters and whatever silly little holidays you want," Arthur blubbered. "We have hundreds of missed holidays to make up for."

"Good, because you owe me a crap ton of money on missed gifts," Alfred whimpered.

"Well you're not getting a bloody dime!" Arthur wept.

"Alfred, stop arguing with your father," Francis sniffed. "You are both ruining the moment."

"Dad? Papa?" Matthew sniffled.

"Yes Matthew?" the two answered.

Matthew chuckled, a weak strained sound as he wiped at the tears trailing down his cheeks. "Nothing," he half sobbed half laughed. "I... I just wanted to try that out."

The four of them laughed at the little joke just as Arthur and Francis went about kissing each boy on their cheeks, making a silent promise that nothing would ever tear their family apart again.


End file.
